I reach my hand out for someone to grab it,
Yet that someone is anyone,
Coming ever so close to my essence,
But collapsing inwards into a non-stop road of walls,
Never being able to read me,
So they walk away,
Or I push them out,
Either way it is all the same.
Locked away in an endless desert,
Buried in the catacombs of eternity,
A manifestation of eternity between I and the world,
Fear, anxiety, terror, seclusion,
A construct of such beguiling feelings,
Erected in indefinite spatial dimensions,
Spanning from the east to the west,
From the ends of the universe and back,
Without end and without beginning,
My consciousness residing outside perception,
An everlasting void,
Sucking anyone in who dares to understand this conundrum,
Even I,
Separated from myself by nothingness,
This glitch of existence,
A feedback trap situated in the black doldrums,
The shrine of the nadir,
A metaphor for the death of the will perhaps,
Or perhaps the death of the social structure within me.
Or perhaps I never had any to begin with.
Blackness surrounding me,
The opinions of others nonexistent yet ever-present,
Affecting the surface but nonexistent to the core,
Scouring the skin but nonexistent to the heart,
In a way I could say "screw you world,"
It seems right to me perhaps,
A walk through the park of my nonexistent life,
A silhouette gliding through life without consequence.