/lit/ - Literature

>>12182017
There are moments in which I distinctly feel like I am not human, this feeling is of impenetrable sadness, a hole opens in my mind and where there were once love and hate, sadness and joy, lust and pain, there is nothingness. But after an uncertain amount of time, I usually come to the conclusion that this feeling is due to my own ineptitude to fathom the magnitude of the absolute absurdity of human thought. My brain is collapsing in on itself and sometimes it can not provide the blanket for the thin, frail and skeletal body of my consciousness, which would surely be freezing to death were it not for the soothing warmth of ignorance that my subconsciousness so lovingly draped across it.

These moments, when I get a vision, a clear image of the subtle but crystallized pain of complete and perfect self realisation, of feeling, no, knowing that to the world, I am nothing but an earthworm, crawling under the burrow of a fat and lazy mole, barely escaping it's rodent teeth by mere chance and not by superior intellect, I feel defeated and I want to end my life then and there. But quickly there's a warmth again, a blanket cradled in the hands of a frail, skeleton like figure which shivers, then smiles as it slowly drifts into a calming and comforting sleep.