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Guilt of the masses.

Elias.
Joined April 2024
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It didn’t work, you can’t bury a ghost in the dirt. You pushed the name down the frost, but the earth is a shallow stomach, it spits back as a bitter taste in your mouth. You are still the thing that feeds the rot, and the burial was just another excuse to touch the ground.
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For A Moment, In An Open Sore.
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The highest burden of an absence is silence.
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After months in hiding and wandering off the grid, I’ve considered allowing anyone and everyone to shoot me with questions in the space provided below this tweet.
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Haven’t pondered that question much myself. I’ve avoided, perhaps even buried, the idea of being in love and vice versa far out of my focus; that could be why my writing has tapered off. The answer is not some grand thing I’d particularly brag about. Mediocre, really.
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Emptied a bottle of whiskey; sipping on false comfort.
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Carving Grief and Loss to Lay Bare What’s Raw.
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An insidious, torturous thing. Your pain. Not a sharp sting or a throbbing ache. It wraps itself around you like a python around its prey. Its gaze leaves you gasping for air. It squeezes your heart with the force of pressure. It mercilessly clouds your vision. It stains you red.
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Infecting your mind. It bends and it twists; it chokes and it steals. Nibbling at your sanity regardless of how you feel. Your pain is a thief. It robs you of joy. Pricking at your soul for the sake of its greed. A burr beneath your skin, binding you in its endless, haunting sin.
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The essence of despair. A loss of self. A robbery. An existential suffering—a state of being trapped in a cycle of anguish—from the way it insinuates itself into every crevice of the psyche. However, there, too, lies power in naming pain through all its brutal, devastating glory.
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Snippets of a book I’ve been working on.
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I, too, want myself dead.
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