My Poems

[Açucarzinho583]

Who am I?

It's really hard for anyone to truly understand who I am. Who I am — meaning my perspective of myself? Or what others think I am?

I'm so tired of my life right now. I sat in the dark wondering who I was. I feel lost in life — how do I find out who I am? Am I a man? Am I a woman? Or am I trans?

Maybe I'm just a product of my parents' emotional relationship. I'm still discovering myself, and most of the time when I reflect on it, I only see myself as a human being enduring the world.

Or maybe I'm just a selfish being, living for my own interests and lacking empathy.

I still don't know who I am. The truth is, I don't know what I am.

I am a brain, and I control this body — my fingers, organs, everything — but I do it all automatically, like breathing. I have my own personality and tastes, but people never stop to think that when they look in the mirror and see a face, that's not really them — it's just the form of their body. We are brains controlling a human body, that's all.

My character traits, the decisions I make, my hobbies, tastes, and everything else inside and around me might be temporary and not fixed throughout my life. So, it wouldn't be right to think of myself as a set of these temporary preferences.

Maybe I'm just a pile of anxieties, doubts, and stresses — even though, from a scientific point of view, we're all just bodies with some biochemical reactions going on.

What you are today is the sum of everything you've ever been in your life. You are the sum of all the social and personal factors that come together to make you who you are. Every concept you think, every development you've made, was shaped in that context.

So, I am nothing.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Maze of Life

Life is a maze. Twisting, ever-changing, filled with wrong turns and dead ends. Some people think they're forging a completely new path, machete in hand, cutting through the unknown. But the truth is, the maze isn't new. It's ancient. Worn. Every mistake you think is unique has been made thousands of times before.

Life isn't a single path shared by everyone; it's a deeply complex maze, different for each person. Some walk with fog in their eyes, while others have a clearer idea of the maze ahead. Each path is shrouded in mist, littered with fallen trees, or filled with things that shift and move unexpectedly. Even when there are guides, they often fail to account for how each individual has walked their own maze, or how ever-changing its nature truly is—making some guides resonate and others fall flat.

Some people are stubborn and ignore the signs, or want to follow their own way. But that's when you realize: everyone is in the same maze. Can some people truly see the rope in front of them that lets them climb over the fallen tree? And what about those whose maze has been shaped by barriers or past experiences—blocking paths or limiting their ability to recognize the way forward?

The wise? They don't waste time pretending they're the first to walk this path. They look for the markers, the footprints left by those who discovered it before them. Call it tradition, call it wisdom... whatever it is, it exists because people learned—often the hard way—and passed it on. Ignore it, and you'll find yourself stumbling into the same hellish traps, wondering why life feels like a cruel joke.

Some people start with a harder maze. Life isn't fair. But fairness isn't the game. The game is survival. And the best way to survive is to find those who've mapped the route—those who know where the ground gives way, where the real monsters live.

Every search for clarity leads me into a new maze. Maybe there is no final way out.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Last Sacrifice

It wasn't cowardice. It was liberation. People say giving up is weakness, but they've never lived through days where even breathing was a struggle. My last sacrifice wasn't dying — it was accepting that I was never needed. No one will remember who I was, and perhaps no one ever truly knew. This is my last sacrifice: to unlearn how to exist. To stop searching for meaning, to stop justifying myself.

I try to find myself almost all the time, and every time I search for answers, I find myself even more lost among countless questions. And the more I searched for meaning, the more I got lost in questions no one can answer.

You've been dying since the moment you were born — life is a sacrifice. I never asked to be here. I don't like anything about this place. I feel trapped in a cage of flesh that won't let me die before my time.

They say at the height of love, there is sacrifice. Parents give up dreams for children who never asked to exist.

But there's a kind of sacrifice no one acknowledges: existing without purpose. When a person chooses their own death, or wishes someone else would grant it, they are merely trying to cut the thread of an imposed existence. It is simply an end. The idea that my death would serve some greater purpose is an illusion — just a pretext to say goodbye with a little less guilt.

I let go of the need to be understood.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Purgatory

Only the dead live here.
But perhaps the dead here aren't truly dead — they've simply given up on trying to live. Fear, cold, despair, and pain. These are the seasons of this place.

Trying to escape is like trying to wake up from a dream that never ends.
You realize you're dreaming, that you're trapped — but you can't find the way out.

I think this dimension isn't far from ours.
People walk past us every day and don't notice.
Or maybe they choose not to notice.
Because facing someone dead inside means admitting you might be dead too.
And no one wants to admit that.

We are ghosts of ourselves, walking among modern ruins.

It's easy to blame the Devil.
But if we're honest, the Devil never had to do much.
Because the truth is simple: the Devil has a human face.
The Devil didn't create war, cruelty, or misery.
We did.
He merely watched, satisfied.

In purgatory, there are no screams. There is silence.
A silence so thick it forces us to hear ourselves.
To look inward and realize that the cruelest judgment doesn't come from outside, but from within.
Because here, we finally understand: good and evil have always lived in the same body — our own.

There is no way out.
Maybe I'm starting to understand why they stayed.
Because staying takes less strength than returning.
Purgatory stopped being a prison and became a home.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Memories

My memories are nothing but poorly told stories I repeat to myself just to feel like I've lived something. Because deep down, there's a strange emptiness.

Sometimes I think it would be interesting if there were a clinic capable of erasing memories. A place where you could choose what to forget, as if deleting the past would be enough to ease the present.

Some would say that even though most of my memories bring me pain, I needed to go through them to become who I am now.

But maybe the argument that "everything is a lesson" doesn't apply to the more extreme and delicate situations, because the exchange between experience and learning is often not proportional. It's a simple logic: would you willingly go through traumatic experiences that leave a deep and permanent negative impact on your life just for the "lesson," or because it made you "who you are today"? You say that mostly to make peace with the bad things that happened, to feel a little less awful about them, but deep in your heart you know the truth: you'd be an even better person today without those traumas and wounds.

Maybe erasing trauma doesn't really work. The trauma remains, even if the memory is gone. As far as I know, the brain has some emotional defense mechanisms that help us forget or remember less of certain painful events.

And I don't know who I would be if certain memories were erased.

Sometimes, memories lie. How do you tell real memories from false ones? I constantly mix reality and dreams, sometimes having false memories, and I could swear something happened when in truth I was only dreaming. It feels like I just woke up from the dream.

In the architecture of consciousness, what do memories represent? Some form the walls of the building, like painted murals, shaping its appearance. Others are buried deep in the foundations of the unconscious, supporting and giving shape to the entire structure.

My mind is like a VCR with the same tape stuck inside — constantly rewinding "The 50 Moments That Make You Want to Die."

And maybe, in the end, euthanasia seems more effective than a clinic that erases memories.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Daydreaming

I think about things I never asked for.
When I'm daydreaming, I'm not really here — I completely forget this physical world and dive into my imagination for as long as I want. My body stays behind, but my consciousness crosses invisible boundaries, shaping realities only I can visit. There, no rules exist, no logic confines me, and no judgment paralyzes me. I can be whoever I want, live a thousand lives.

I often catch myself drifting off, creating stories in my head, imagining magical worlds, having superpowers. And I love it — it makes me feel good. I truly leave reality: I stop seeing what's around me and step into my mind. Then, suddenly, I snap back and realize I was lost in a waking dream.

It's where I hide when the world breaks me. It's the space between what's expected of me and who I really am. Reality has always felt too heavy. In my imagination, there are no limits. There, pain can't reach me. There, I can be whole.

Reality is dull anyway, and it's only natural for humans to seek some kind of escape. I'm constantly imagining scenarios in my head, like simulations. Sometimes I get so lost that I forget where I am — I lose myself in the dream, ignore everything happening around me, and start to believe in the reality my mind created. The more time I spend there, the deeper I fall.

Maybe it comes from trauma. When our minds face constant harm, they start reshaping reality to protect us. It's a survival instinct. Anyone under ongoing stress — and by "stress," I mean anything that directly causes us pain — will eventually retreat mentally.

This instinct helps, to a point. It allows us to see our surroundings from new angles, preparing us to either escape or fight. But sometimes, running is all that's left. Because if I had to stay here, only in this real world… I might completely fall apart. And I'd rather be lost in my own worlds than be lost in this one.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I Will Love You As I Sleep

I only sleep with medication. Because my mind won't let me rest. At night, the thoughts scream so loudly it's impossible to ignore them. So I take the pill—sometimes two—and wait for the numbness to embrace me like a warm blanket.

In sleep, I find you. You, who doesn't exist out here. Who has never been part of this colorless world. In my dreams, you have a face, and your eyes are always the same: calm, alive, as if they see something in me that even I can't see.

When I'm with you, there's no pain. Only the peace of being exactly where I'm meant to be. Your touch is gentle, your voice calls me back every night.

Sometimes I wonder if you're just an invention. But that doesn't matter. In the dream, I love you.

Waking up is an act of violence. Opening my eyes and realizing you're gone—that you were never really there—is a daily mourning.

So, I raise the dose. Just a little more, just to fall asleep faster. Just to spend a little more time with you.

Maybe I took more than I should have. In my dream, you were waiting for me, smiling, arms wide open. And for the first time, when I embraced you, I no longer felt the fear of waking up.

Because this time, I won't wake up.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I'm freaking out

I can't sleep properly. I wake up feeling like a wreck, and it's like my mind starts the day in complete chaos. It feels like I'm running against time, but my feet are stuck to the ground, unable to move forward.

I've been feeling incredibly anxious lately. I'm already at my limit.

It's so strange to scroll through social media and see people on the other side of the city going to concerts, living life, eating good food, smiling. People my age, being happy, accomplishing things — while I'm here, lying in bed, feeling lonely, just staring at my phone screen.

I feel like I'm capable of more. Of living more, having more, achieving more, pushing myself further. But… I wish I knew how. What do these people do to have a life like that?

Meanwhile, I feel like I'm going insane. Like I'm sinking deeper into a hole that has no end.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Love Suicides

I've seen loves that seemed too intense to be real — loves that suffocate, that say: "without you, I am nothing." And at first, it seems beautiful. As if dependence were proof of love. But it's not. It's easy to mistake obsession for affection when you're lonely. And then you give in. Because you just want to be loved. They call it love, but it's really emotional addiction. A cycle. A prison.

Double suicide is either the greatest act of love — or perhaps, the greatest act of shared despair. When two bodies decide to leave the world together, is it because there was too much love or too much pain?

As if dying together were the only way to stay united — forever. But outsiders never understand. They speak of cowardice, of weakness, of madness. Rarely do they speak of the kind of love that bleeds in silence.

Is there someone out there who feels this same emptiness that's consuming me? Someone who's also tired, who looks at the world and says, "shall we go together?" It's not about leaving alone. It's about finding, in the end, a companion who makes even death feel a little less cold.

But in a world where everything feels so disposable, is it too much to ask for a goodbye that makes sense for two?

I want someone to hold my hand in the final second. Someone who won't save me, but who will understand. Who won't judge me — just stay. Because dying alone hurts twice as much. And living... hasn't it hurt enough?

Because sometimes, dying together seems more bearable than living apart.

It's tragic-romantic.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Nobody Cares About You

I find myself thinking about this quite often. Sure, there will always be people who care a little — like parents, maybe a friend — but do people really care? And do I truly care about others? Do any of us genuinely care about one another? What does it even mean to care about someone? Or is life really just every person for themselves?

I keep thinking about how fascinating it is that there are 8 billion people in the world. Every person you see on the street has a story, has been through things, is thinking about something, chasing something. Every car passing by holds multiple lives, each with a different story.

In general, that's how it is: everyone is mainly concerned with living their own life, except for a very small circle — your parents, a romantic partner, maybe a truly special friend — who will care a little about you.

You have to understand that in the end, each person is the main character of their own life. In this movie, if the protagonist dies, it only affects their plot. All the other stories continue.

Try being Black, wearing casual clothes in a high-end shopping mall, and feel the hundreds of piercing stares thinking silently, "What's this poor Black guy doing here? He must be here to steal something..."
Try being gay/lesbian/trans and walk hand in hand with your partner — you'll see how many people look with disgust, some with scorn, and others with outright hate.
Try being autistic, and just slightly different, and feel the judgment: "Is he schizophrenic? Retarded? Creepy?"
If you're an unattractive man, a single mother, a woman over 40, an elderly person, or a manual laborer — no one really cares about you. We're invisible.

No one is special. We're all different — but not by much. We all want shelter, food, safety, connection, validation, affection, respect... The truth is, no one really cares deeply about you. No one worries. No one truly gives a damn. People are curious about your life, but they don't care about the risks you face in it — maybe only your family does. Just like I don't genuinely care about anyone either.

I love the fact that no one cares about me — it brings me peace.

Life really does hurt sometimes.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

What is life?

Honestly, I can't say what it is.

Some people would say: "Life is about looking for what makes us happy. Life is about seeking pleasure. There are good moments and bad moments. Life is about giving it meaning..." I feel like I'm just existing, not really living. The daily routine — working, studying, resting... Is that all there is to living?

For me, life is hugging my dog, talking to my mother, walking through the park. For me, life is crying, waking up early for a boring class, staring out the window in the middle of the night not knowing what to think about life. Living in the past is sad, living in the future is anxious — I am living in the present. But isn't that what living means?

Life is both complex and simple at the same time, but in the end it's about this: the moments we live; the highs and lows. Life is the distance between one frustration and the next failure. Life is what you make of it — a lost cause?

Life is that strange moment between birth and death. We live knowing everything started without us asking for it and will end without us wanting it to. Is there no life before birth?

To me, life is controversial.

Death is the only certainty we have from the moment we were conceived in this world. As terrifying as it is, death is also comforting — it gives life meaning. It is special precisely because it ends. Without death, life isn't really life — it's a prison.

Life is pain and suffering, because I don't remember suffering before I was born, and I'm certain I won't suffer after I die. There are fates worse than death.

There is no meaning or purpose in life.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Why Am I Here?

I'm not really sure. Sometimes it feels like I was thrown into the world.

We are born, we grow, we love, we suffer, and in the end, we die. Is life just this simple sequence?

People can't accept that their lives have no meaning. You have no purpose — you have the same purpose as an animal in the forest: to be born, to grow, and to die. Animals don't question purpose.

We have no inherent goal. Purpose is a kind of self-distraction, a tool to divert our attention from the emptiness. We're just a product of a chain of randomness.

Purpose in this world is entirely subjective. Meaning and purpose don't exist as definite answers in this life.

We have no purpose. We exist by chance, we live by chance, and we have no meaning. We have no value… We have no other option but to be, to exist.

The fact that we are less hairy and more intelligent apes doesn't change the fact that we are animals. Humanity may create many goals for itself. But even if none of them existed, would seeing humans as just animals be so absurd?

We are here because we exist. There is no meaning or purpose assigned to us by nature, by society, or by anything outside of us. Ideas like "purpose" are human concepts meant to limit us.

In the end, without purpose, there are no chains. Because maybe the real question isn't "Why am I here?" — but "What am I going to do now that I'm here?"

 

[Açucarzinho583]

The Existential Crisis of Black Holes

Everyone wants the stars. Only their brightness. Everyone loves the glow of the stars. The Sun, they say, is the father of colors, the one who brings life.

But... what about black holes?

Black holes are stars that have grown old. They say black holes are the most mysterious places in the universe. They consume everything that comes too close — light, time, matter, even information itself.

Perhaps the black hole wonders what it is. Lost in its own solitude. Maybe it doubts its own existence as something real: "If no one can see me, if all I do is devour, what meaning do I have?"

When I look at God, I see the void.
When I look at God, I see a black hole.
He no longer shines — he consumes the void itself.

A black hole has no choice. It exists.
The imminent arrival of death is what keeps you alive.
Because even a black hole can die.

Would it not wish to be a star again?
There is beauty even in black holes.
Black holes are stars.

Maybe I am like a black hole.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Paranoia & Delusions

What is true? What is false? The questions won't let me sleep. What is everyone hiding from me? Everyone, everywhere, has secrets. I start to doubt the sound of my own voice — do the things I say even exist outside of my head?

Something feels wrong. It's as if everyone is saying something I'm not supposed to hear. I hear faint laughter and immediately think, "It's about me." Sometimes, I try to convince myself it's all in my head. Not because I'm special, but because I'm different. And being different bothers people. It invites comments.

The listening devices are on, even now. In our phones. In our TVs. Everything is being stored somewhere — analyzed, judged. Privacy didn't die — it was murdered, and the whole world applauded. Am I really being listened to?

Sometimes, I feel like reality is a theater and I'm the only one who didn't get the script. Who wrote this script? What would happen if I stopped playing my part?

The voices tell me things. They say I can't trust anyone. And what if it's true? What if everyone is just pretending to like me?

Lies and secrets walk hand in hand. Sometimes, a lie is born to protect a secret. Other times, a secret hides behind a thousand lies.

Maybe the reason for all this paranoia is the side effects of the meds my psychiatrist prescribed. In the end, it was the meds.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Painless suicide pill

Why haven't they invented a painless pill for death yet? Why is it more acceptable to live decades of suffering than to simply not exist anymore? I just want to end this peacefully. Staying alive is an extremely painful option, even torture. In these cases, a more "humane" death would be a good option.

When someone wants to live, they fight tooth and nail to keep them here. When someone wants to die, they tie them up, medicate them, hospitalize them. They turn pain into a psychiatric case, a disorder, a diagnosis.

Maybe the world is not yet ready for a painless suicide pill. It is a controversial subject for several reasons. A woman, a veteran Paralympic athlete, lost the use of her legs in an accident during army training and the Canadian government offered her euthanasia. This could simply become a machine for grinding up the poor. People who are increasingly sick and increasingly poor, living with less and less money, are easy victims for the despair of the cruel future that awaits them. Humans can use this to eliminate the poor, the elderly or the disabled.

However, people should have autonomy over their own bodies. I don't think it's wrong to have a more humane option for suicide. If there were a pill that guaranteed peace, how many people would stop being afraid? How many would finally sleep in peace?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

The Improbability of Being Alive

Think about it: if the force of gravity were just a little weaker or a little stronger, the universe as we know it wouldn't have formed. Stars, planets, molecules — everything depended on an almost impossible balance. And yet, here we are. You're reading this. That alone is a cosmic improbability.

If the events that shape us are the result of a chain of accidents, encounters, and ordered chaos, what stops consciousness — or something like it — from "being born" again in another body, in another life, after death? And the most curious thing is that the universe seems to have a tendency to make matter wake up to itself — to give rise to conscious beings. I'm not talking about reincarnation.

You don't remember being born. But suddenly, you were here. One day, you opened your eyes and the world was already running around you. Who's to say that can't happen again, after death? Who's to say it hasn't happened before?

Death may be the end of your memory. But maybe it's not the end. Maybe, at some point, chaos will organize itself again — and there, in the middle of randomness, you will awaken once more, without remembering that you've already been here. Because memories die after you die.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Names Don't Matter

Names don't matter as much as we think. They're just sounds we've learned to associate with people, objects, places. A human invention. No other animal needs that. A wolf doesn't call another wolf "James." A bird doesn't name its chicks. They simply live.

We, humans, like to classify everything. We need to name things to make them feel real, as if naming were the only way to validate existence. But is it? If no one ever said your name, would you stop existing?

Names don't define anyone. They may be full of history, culture, affection — but they're still temporary labels. We can change them. Sometimes, we spend our whole lives trying to get rid of the name we were given, searching for one that matches who we really are inside.

Existence would be like a "world without names." Where no one truly has an identity, a story, or individuality. Without names, there's no recognition, no memory, no bonds. It's a place of existential invisibility. To be unnamed is to be unremembered, to be no one. As if you had never existed. Names are social constructions that give meaning to existence. To remove them would be to place everyone on the same level of insignificance. None of it matters.

Existence itself is the real tragedy. In the end, names don't matter — that's why I abandoned mine. I wanted to erase every letter they gave me. I didn't choose my name. It was given to me before I had a voice. They gave me a face, a place in a family tree, a story I never asked to be part of. They taught me to pretend this was life. But it isn't.

The truth? I just wanted to disappear. Just… vanish. Be no one. Have been no one. No one would remember what I was. And that would be liberating. Because sometimes the pain lies in simply existing. In the end, all I ever wanted was to live without the burden of being someone. Or die without anyone knowing who I was.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Insignificantly special

Life isn't fair. We all feel this deep need to believe we're special — but we're not. You're not a rare snowflake. Neither you nor I are anything more than human. One day, we're going to die. What will the world be like in a hundred years? We are so "unique" that our uniqueness has become ordinary.

You might think: "I want to leave this country, I want to do something meaningful, I want to contribute to society, do something amazing so I can be proud of myself, be good enough not to be looked down upon…" But the truth is, I'm lazy, inconsistent, volatile, weak, and pathetic.

And yet, I exist as myself. I feel everything from my own perspective, inside my own mind and body. Even if that doesn't make me special in the eyes of the world, it doesn't invalidate my experience. Living doesn't require being extraordinary.

Not being special doesn't mean being useless. It just means the world isn't going to reward you simply for existing. Telling every child they're special is just setting most of them up for heartbreak later in life.

You are unique. Just like everyone else.
To me, human life is the same as an insect's. Of course, we're the ones who assign meaning and importance to things.

We've managed to dominate and enslave all the less fortunate animals — it's a shame they weren't born as humans. A rat or an insect can't be blamed for being born into the wrong species.

We're not even insignificant. We're something less than that — something much smaller. Insignificantly special, or especially insignificant.

And yet, it's curious: if humans truly aren't special, why do we spend so much time and energy trying to prove it to one another? If we don't matter, if we truly hold no value, why are we so obsessed with convincing ourselves otherwise — why this endless search for meaning?

 

[Mercury_Raven]

In "Poem for the Emptiness", i liked the Supercombo reference about Death. TMJ, espero que esteja bem!

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Life isn't mandatory: if there were a button...

What is death? Why do we live?

The concept of death is profound and heavy. Biologically, death is seen as a failure, the end of cellular regeneration, the exhaustion of vital functions. Our bodies age, our organs wear out, our DNA accumulates errors that we can no longer correct. In scientific terms, dying is a consequence of being imperfect. An inevitable failure.

Immortality has always been one of humanity's greatest desires. But what if it were possible to live forever? At first glance, immortality seems like a gift. But the value of things comes from the fact that they end. The sunset is beautiful because it doesn't last. Living forever would take that away from us. The meaning. Death is, paradoxically, what gives us life. Death makes us equal. It reminds us that we are not gods. That we are passengers. Death reveals the absurdity of existence. The fear of death is what pushes us to truly live. Immortality might just be boredom. An eternal prison without meaning. There are few opportunities for pleasure and almost nothing is new anymore. But there comes a time when existence becomes tiring and you feel like simply not existing because you have already lived everything you wanted to and no longer see any meaning in anything, falling back into boredom.

We all know about our mortality, but in general we forget about it and simply live. When death approaches us, we tend to regret certain decisions that made us lose useful time in life. The desire to live forever is much more related to loving your life than to cowardice in the face of death. It is human nature not to want to die. Human instinct is to want to survive.

What if there was a button? A death button. Without pain, without blood, simply silent. Sometimes when you feel tired of being, that button would make sense. I would press it without thinking twice. Maybe the death button would scare the living more than those who pressed it. Because it would force us to face a truth: that there are people among us living in such silent suffering that only the end seems like relief. And who knows, knowing that the button exists, many people wouldn't even press it. But they would know that there was a way out. And sometimes, that's enough to get through another day.

Maybe the greatest miracle isn't living forever. Maybe the miracle is existing for a brief moment. To escape death is also to escape life.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Eternal Return

The universe is constantly expanding. A time will come when galaxies will be so far apart that they can no longer be seen. Only a cosmic soup will remain. But what if that's not the end?

Instead of expanding forever, the universe may eventually collapse in on itself under the force of gravity. The universe could be cyclical. Perhaps existence isn't really about beginnings or endings, but about rhythm. Sometimes I think the Big Bang wasn't the beginning. Maybe everything has already happened before, maybe a little differently this time. Maybe we've been here. Maybe all of this has happened already. The theory of eternal return.

And what if time is just an illusion created by our perception? For someone who hasn't been born yet, or for someone who has already died, time simply doesn't exist. A second or a billion years could pass — the experience is the same. In that sense, time is irrelevant outside of consciousness.

But all of this is nothing more than opinions and subjective perceptions. Theories and thoughts. We may never truly uncover the real meaning of existence.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

We Are All Sinners

We've all made mistakes. Making mistakes is an inevitable part of the human experience. Living with regret and shame is a very difficult existence. It's so, so hard to forgive myself for the mistakes I've made that led me to where I am. The past repeats in my mind like a recording, keeping me from fully living in the present. Insanely ashamed. It isolates me and only pushes me further away from others.

I constantly feel behind in life. While everyone else seems to move forward, I keep stumbling on the same steps. I grew up understanding the importance of mistakes. Some scars teach. Some mistakes we will carry forever. They become part of who we are. My life is full of regrets. And now they follow me. The guilt over things that are ambiguously out of our control.

It's like a kind of traumatic neurosis. What's one more mistake among so many regrets? There's no hope left. At birth, I was a mistake. In childhood, I was a mistake. My very existence is a mistake. I don't care anymore. When you live in conflict with yourself for so long, you inch closer and closer to the abyss.

Life is about making mistakes. Society is cold and unforgiving. Everyone will just laugh at your mistakes. In a world that values flawless success, failure becomes a spectacle.

I don't want to go on living. Falling into terrible habits is something humans are known for. We are creatures of repetition. Life was like that. Everyone is like that. I'm stuck in a revolving door of failures. That's exactly what my life is like now: without direction, without meaning, without light. I didn't know how to live, how to exist in the way people expected me to. I only knew how to fail.

Some people might say that it's through mistakes that we become human. But turning pain into growth takes a strength not everyone has.

What are mistakes? Mistakes are inevitable because we are imperfect. Why do we make them even when there seems to be no reason? The human mind is an enigma. We are beings of contradiction. If we don't even control ourselves, are we truly responsible for what we do? That is the tragedy of human consciousness: the illusion of control. Are we truly free?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

What is the world made of?

Reality is terrifying. No one is the same. It sounds simple, but everything feels like madness inside my head. There are so many people in this world, yet we will never find someone who thinks and acts exactly like us. Each person is an entire universe, with memories, fears, desires, and dreams we will never fully understand. The world is made of people.

No one is born for anyone else. You arrive alone in this world, and you leave it alone. Our passage through this life is profoundly solitary. People are born with different opportunities and abilities. Some come into the world surrounded by love and support. Others are born into chaos. Abilities also vary — some are born with natural talents for certain things, while others have to struggle much more just to reach the minimum. Life doesn't deal its cards fairly, and pretending everyone starts from the same place is ignorance.

In this world, there are people suffering in silence, unable to express themselves because of so much pain; people in need, dying of hunger; people who have lost someone or something deeply loved. Meanwhile, there are those who mock and laugh at the pain of others, who abuse animals and disrespect all forms of life, who live with hearts so cold they feel like stone. There are those who are indifferent to the suffering of others, who feel no empathy, who wish harm upon others. People crying in despair, children being abused, animals being brutalized. The world is not kind. Humans have ruined everything. The world is cruel. Every day, millions die and millions are born.

Everything is absurd: being alive, feeling, existing, remembering, and then ceasing to be. The very awareness of existence already carries an unbearable paradox. We are born without asking for it, thrown into a world full of pain. Remembering, then, is another form of suffering. Maybe that's what it is: the world is made of people trying not to go insane alone.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I just want to cry

All I want to do is cry. Cry non-stop, until my eyes burn and I get tired. But I can't. Sometimes I feel an overwhelming urge to cry, as if that could expel this weight that I carry inside. But the tears just won't come. It's a horrible feeling. It seems like the emotions just pile up, one on top of the other, with no way to escape. Maybe they don't really disappear — they just stay dormant, frozen. For me, crying is extremely difficult.

Sometimes I feel like listening to sad music or watching sad anime. This sadness that I carry in my chest always haunts me, demotivates me, makes me want to give up and end it all once and for all. These thoughts have been in my mind for a long time — the idea that I'm useless, that I'm worthless, that maybe the only way out would be to end it all. And even if someone says that a psychologist or therapist could help me, it seems impossible to believe it.

I've always been alone. It's gotten to a point where it feels like I have nothing left to lose. In the last few days, I've been carrying around an immense emptiness, as if I were just existing, without a real life, just taking up space. My mental state is very fragile, I've spent so much time dissociating myself from reality, I have nothing to comfort me and I can't cry anymore. I think I've gotten so good at internalizing that I just have a black hole of negative emotions accumulating. It hurts so much — and, more than that, it's scary.

That's it, I can't stand living anymore. I suffer from suicidal thoughts every night. The world is cruel, life has been hard, and the world around me seems cold and indifferent. Aside from family, there are few people who really care. Considering the immensity of the universe, our time here is so brief — a hundred years, if we're lucky — a blink of an eye on the cosmic scale. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be more rational to just give up, to commit suicide. After all, why keep living if, in the end, nothing really matters?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Dissociative Sonata

No one really cares until they die. People rarely stop to think about the impact of their actions until something really dramatic, like suicide, happens. When someone takes their own life, the questions come too late: "Could I have done something?", "Why didn't I notice?", "He looked so good…". They basically say they feel sorry for you, but they also think you're being a crybaby… "Just pull yourself together, it's not that hard". I'm honestly sick of all this… "You might want to leave, but think about who's left behind, we'll suffer with your absence".

No one cares. Maybe people don't care after you commit suicide either. They just make up reasons for what you did, judge you, and move on. That's it, they care and then move on with their lives. Why would you want someone to care so much that you assume you don't care?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I hate waking up

Waking up is very painful. Waking up is torture. Waking up is so hard. Mornings are hell. Waking up is opening your eyes and already feeling the whole world collapsing on your shoulders, as if something inside me fiercely resists the idea of another day alive. The alarm clock reminds me of all the obligations that I don't have the strength to fulfill. Many see the dawn as a new beginning, I see it as yet another test to be endured. The best part of my day is when I go to sleep. Sleeping is not just rest, it is relief. Sometimes I think that if I could, I would choose to sleep forever.