April 11th, Year 22

There is no one more tired of my complaining than I am. My grievances against the world are awakening the dead. Soft moans, and a steady cry. Corpses are securing the entrance, and prohibiting my passage. They say I am not like them, and they are sickened by my performance. I expose my grey face, and they remain unimpressed.

I will not go away so easily, nor will I silence myself. This moves no one in support of me, when there is no action following such a spirited proclamation. I paint nothing, and destroy the canvas. There is another way, but have yet to find it, despite being on the search since birth. I say I want life, yet chase death. I say I want my throne, yet sold my crown to the lowest bidder. I say I want to see, but have sewn the veil to my eyelids.

The disease hangs on to every cell in my brain, and I am loyal to it. There was never a need to find a lover outside of myself, when I was fully married to anxiety. I have been faithful to it. I have nourished it, and encouraged its growth. If it should ever leave me, I would be a shell. I am at its feet, as its willing prisoner.

April 11th, Year 22

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