/lit/ - Literature

Is it really nothing but a fever dream? Laying in this ever still backdrop that pretends growth and change and all the humanity, all its beauty and its ugliness and all the misery it can muster to show I can't help but grow further detached from all of it.
And what's more, from this disengagement I feel it all talking back to me. Everything that comes to view blurs into breathing messages relating to my personal experience, and the further I look into them the more I fear. Despite all, this wonderful hell was built from my own volition, by my own sweat and blood; and what lies behind I know is not meant for me, yet I daily yearn for it.
At what feels like the final stretch leading towards the abrupt end of this endless crossroad I find nothing but doubt and uncertainty, and much like this post I can't make anything else outside that meaningless vagueness and inexplicable craving for it.