And then I cry again, of course I cry again. I’m fighting each day, every minute, every second for the past three years — a few tears are the bare minimum of emotional culpability I should offer.

I miss touch, I miss smiles from strangers, and I miss the sun on my skin. I just miss life. I miss all the people in my tiny, cozy little life, and I miss the forest. I miss the trees and the dew on a morning after the moon has shown its strength.

The well of memories starts to dry out and I start to drown in my tears. It’s like all the memories slowly overwrite themselves through the acid in my eyes. It’s devastating. I just want someone to end this hell and hug me, finally. Just hold me. I’m scared. I’m anxious.

The fear keeps feeding on my symptoms.

I was an asshole. I was unjust. I fucked up so many times in life. Is this it?

And then the self dawns in my psyche, as if I am beginning to understand, you know? I have never been a puzzle in the first place. I’m nauseous the moment I write this, and my whole room keeps spinning. Life is beautiful.

I think I’m predicting my own future. I think I can feel it unfolding through space and time. I just provide space.

I just make myself empty.