Chaos Within

Lost—a loser, a freak—I inhabit this skin like a rented room, always too cold, too dark, too damp. In some shadowy alcove of my mind lingers that unshakable truth: no grand purpose will ever emerge to stitch me whole. Fulfillment is a mirage, a sun-scorched ribbon of road in a desert without end.

The reality remains elusive, slipping between fingers that grasp too tight or too loose, crumbling into dust, or disappearing altogether. Dissolution, silent and stealthy, creeps in—chaos disguised as a choice. I have danced to the tune of hormones and drugs, blind desire, blunter ignorance, and the sticky fingerprints of immaturity smearing every decision.

The wars rage on, indifferent. The headlines churn, the crowds march and scream, the history books bulge and splinter. None of it touches me. My war is inward—behind the eyelids, where the echoes of space, time, and fate collide.

I have unraveled and rewoven myself many times, each version as empty as the last. Satisfaction? A cruel jest, a horizon I can never reach. I want nothing of you or your gods, angels, devils, your rules. Least of all your certainties.

I imagine myself as some cosmic misstep, a being flung into the void, swallowed by a black hole before it ever had a chance to exist. Maybe that’s all I ever was—an alien to myself, orbiting nowhere.

No fucking wonder I stare at the sun, even at midnight. Maybe it’s not heaven I’m searching for—just the heat of something real before the light burns out. Before the universe crumbles, this rented room collapses, taking me with it.