The Futility of Feeling

“Were our feelings ever meant to be the fragile bridge reaching across the distance between us?”

Sadness arrives in waves—relentless, indifferent. You wonder: Were feelings ever meant to bridge the gap between us? But no. They collapse inward, rotting in the chest. Here you are, little animal. Vermin scratching at the walls of a maze no one built. The others? Irrelevant. Their presence or absence changes nothing.

You once wished for understanding. For hands clasped in mutual ruin. But the world is a barren pantry—scraps fought over with broken teeth.

Love is a luxury for those who can afford to lose.

Nobility? A fairy tale told to children before they learn to bite.

Power is the only currency. And you, half-hearted banker, fumble the transaction. What have I become? A question without answer. Introspection is a knife that slips—you carve deeper, but find only hollows. You built a throne of your solitude, crowned yourself ruler of nothing. Now the silence gnaws.

The game never made sense. You knew this. But you played anyway—let others write the rules, let them whisper this is how it’s done. You mimicked their hunger, their calculated cruelty. But your performance falters. Where are your rules? Your code? You painted them in water on stone. Gone by morning.

A Directive for the Damned

Embrace the hunt. Inhale the iron-tang of blood—yours, theirs, it matters little. Chase until your lungs shred. Let failure be your compass. Let your addictions—the need to win, to be seen, to matter—gnaw your bones clean.

That monster in your gut? Forge it into a weapon. Let sadness be its chain. Kindness is a word you dare not speak; it dies in this air. We are all lost here. Maps burned at the start.

The Lie

You’ll tell yourself this is truth. That the world demands it. But in the quiet, when the game pauses—you’ll wonder. Was there ever another way?

(No. There wasn’t. Keep playing.)

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