Life through shit-tinted glasses.

[The anhedonic one]

It's a beautiful sunny day here right now. I'm walking through a beautiful park. People are everywhere, smiling, laughing, talking, having fun.
Yet, I don't feel anything.
All I feel is numb.
I feel like I am in the middle of a TV show: everything around me has no real substance.
I feel like a stranger here, I don't feel part of this thing called life.

This Anhedonia and existential crisis is killing me.
Yet, inside of me, I am already dead.
The flowers in my garden grow down
Their colour pain
Their fragrance sorrow
Into my eyes grow their roots
Feeling for tears
To nourish the hopeless black rose within me.

 

[FuneralCry]

Existing here certainly is something so dreadful to me, it's just an empty process of slowly dying, waiting to actually cease existing. The way that I see it, to die is the only true relief from this nightmare.