It is after inflicting to myself a lack of sleep of at least a day, hundreds of lashes 

and little to eat that I arrive at a point I know well enough. No matter what I do, 

even if it is good, this state of mind creeps up silentely and takes me by surprise.

Well, not completely, I expect it now, but it's still a rather unpleasant experience to 

feel it come back. The anguish, stress and general sense of sadness settles in once more, 

and there is nothing I can do to make this go away. Time take cares of it, and in the meantime, 

I must go through the muds of hell once again. And when the passage is complete, 

I just go back on a frozen dirt path, covered by ash. With trees with leaves made from manifested 

sorrow and self-contempt, tears of hope fall down and light the way still.

The punishment inflicted to oneself isn't great enough in its intricacies, but as a whole, 

the life that I'm leading is plentiful enough to ask for a long rest. One day it will come, 

for eternity it will take me like many others before and after.

But I have no positive or negative outlook on my own death, as it's an act that must happen 

no matter what. Leaving behind flesh and bones that will be consumed by the ecosystem my 

body will be in. Even then I'm not certain.



	I understand why life is worthwhile, how it becomes as such, but the way to take to obtain 

it is a strange one. It shouldn't be, because it is the most familiar and the only one path 

known to mankind, but there's something that I do not cherish about this.

Perhaps it is just cause of my recurring state of mind, a weird duality of thinking about this: 

One part wants terribly badly to have a meaningful life, and the other wants to keep on crawling on 

the edge of another plane of hell, acting like a false light in the millions of fires burning around, 

and the cold emitted from empty flames.

Now, the life I'm living is being paved towards the betterment of the self and of life itself, 

and hopefully not just for mine. In my words as well, it seems that it is the case. 

But there is always this unshakable feeling of despair and helplessness that haunts

all the steps I take, may I be dancing or walking, and make me forget dreams of the night.



	I believe I am good at abandon and moving on. Though, perhaps not the champion of the world 

of moving on, considering I'm still someone with sorrows and regrets, 

however as time pass and thoughts are given, they appear less and less. 

There hasn't been a good or bad decision taken yet. I have been away from prying eyes, 

to try to become wiser and tougher. All I did was complete a breakdown, 

and still somehow I was able to get a little flicker of a meaningful life somewhere along the way.

It didn't last long, but it was a good moment to live. 

And now my back hurt, the skin isn't lacerated yet but it feels like it's bleeding. 

Perhaps the next time I mortify my flesh, I'll really be able to say "I mortified my flesh". 

It's not that painful, there is nothing righteous or wrong about this act and this pain.

The self-inflicted cuts on my arms have healed well enough, the blood and money spilled 

for those could be considered a simple mark of a checkpoint in my life. 

Well, that's not a nice word to use, but that's the best I can think of. Something to remember. 

The largest wound that will most likely leave a scar for the rest of my life oozes of a welcoming 

glow and distant heat, but given ample attention and at the center 

you can only sense an emptiness wanting to share its memories to someone else.

A mouth that, open, only reveals a manifestation of something that never was. 

And never will be, perhaps, as it is now a mark of this present and the recent past. 



	In this instant, silently I torment myself with revelations of a future that seems to already 

be written for the coming days. Void and meaningless words for no one to hear will be said and written, 

and in the coming year no wish will be made. Or, perhaps, out of a distant cry of hope, some wishes will 

be made, and this time it will be to Mother and Father, and not to the spirits of a graveyard. 

From those who can't or do not want to listen, to those who do not care to listen. 

From cruelty to tyranny, and both are needed to form something that I have been holding onto. 

There is no words, no scripture and no sound at all. A peaceful silence that becomes the 

calming storm once the silent eeriness is settled.



I do not wish to . . .  And I am here, listening and judging by fixating in emptiness, 

eyes shivering from a fear of living. Help me if you are listening to me, give me a hand for a moment, 

for I can only give you back a piece of a hell that I know well.





Anguish, stress and sense of sadness settles once more, 

And there is nothing to be done to close the door.

Time takes care of it, and while uncertain, 

A slog through hell's mud must be done again.



And when the passage is complete, 

Go back on a frozen dirt path, covered by ash. 

With trees with their leaves made from sleet 

Sorrow and self-contempt mismatch, slash and gnash.

Their tears of hope light the way still.



The carnal punishment inflicted to oneself 

Is not great enough in intricacies, 

But as a whole, the life led by my self 

There is my wish to rest with legitimacy.