Prose

Pain worse than hell

Your silence tells me that you’re screaming inside, your perfectly calm body tells me you’re shivering inside. From the outside, you are the living example of an indication in human form. Nobody sees you, nobody hears you. But I feel you. The level of my empathy reaches every movement of your body. I read the mimic of your face like a tragic novel in the late hours. It burns like hell, your pain. You enjoy it, don’t you? Do you enjoy the ability to hide from the rest of the world? To crawl up in all your emotions and punch them like you’re punching people on the streets like the whole space is yours. You notice that people judge you, but you don’t care. You live the pain that’s worse than hell in which everyone else lives. And you don’t mind that kind of state you’re in until someone attempts to get close to you, then you’re ruthless. You use sarcasm as a cold weapon and attack instantly, with or without reason. You reject people because you feel like you should. You don’t want help, because you think you’re able to manage it. Alone. Rotten inside, but still beautiful, because you don’t vanish and you don’t want to. You love life, but you don’t love yourself. You always find ways to recover from time to time. A miracle among miracles. You can light a candle at night and watch it until it burns. Why does that describe your inner state? You make me question myself, even when I don’t want answers. You’re not impressed by things that are within the reach to others, accessible and fake, but exactly as they are, clean, clear, without any effects and external beauty. You are aware that such beauty does not define anything. It disrupts, narrows the truth and distorts it. That’s you. Every part of your bones burns, but you’re freezing outside. Those dark things full of light attracts you, just like that candle. It burns and melts on a letter you long wanted to burn, but you didn’t succeed. And as you stare at the wax that agglutinates to the skin that no longer has the space to wander, you realize that there’s a part of you that doesn’t give up. You don’t exclude yourself despite everything you’ve endured. You breathe and live. Goddess of your own hell. Strange and untouchable. At least you look like that, but I see something more, the holograms of you, pixels scattered in different parts of your interior, the same one you’re selfishly protecting. And I don’t blame you. I know you don’t belong to this world, but this world belongs to you. You don’t look for reasons just to have them on a case-by-case basis, because you live for no reason, you live because you feel that way, but the curse continually follows you, that pain worse than hell, it burns your skin, but you learned to live with those scars because they’re yours. You fight against pain even when it pounds your body the most. You’re the main character in the side world. When people overtake you, you run away from them, but you don’t make excuses not to be in their proximity, you just disappear without a trace, but leave an indelible mark behind you. You’re as exceptional as the flame that keeps you cold. You lock yourself in yourself and look in the indefinite. You conceive parts of the past by creating the climax of the future. You are not from this planet, yet from another time, the one that’s inconceivable today. An ancient and shattered soul, with a superior, perfectly calm body that tells me that you are part of your pain, you are that same pain, and at the same time, you carry it with you.

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