I wake to the weight of nothing,
a hollow sun rising in a sky of ash.
The world moves, yet I stay still,
a ghost tethered to the shell of a body.
My mind, a battlefield long abandoned,
is littered with echoes of forgotten wars.
The voices have quieted, but the silence screams,
a deafening hum of despair.
Everything is grey—
the walls, the streets, the faces,
even my thoughts,
bleeding into the void like smoke.
I feel nothing, not even the pain,
just the absence of color,
of meaning,
of me.
Some days, the idea of ending
feels like a lullaby,
a promise of stillness
where chaos once lived.
But even that hope—if you call it hope—
slips through my fingers like sand.
Too tired to fight,
too afraid to let go.
I sit with the weight of it all,
the crushing, endless grey,
praying for a spark,
though I no longer believe in light.
And so I exist,
not living, not dying,
just fading,
slowly,
into nothing.