I can't bloody focus on anything. This dread is like an accursed bog, dragging me down in seemingly all directions. I can't rest, I can't find respite from the struggle. It's dragged me down my whole life, the conflict, the pain, the fight, the loneliness. My soul has forgotten the feeling of true peace. It's always been a constant war for my life. And now salvation seems so cheap... So mundane. I wonder where an idealized enviable caricature of persons rests this night? In far away homes and worlds, unknown souls rest their heads next to their husbands and wives. They return to the embrace of their sons and daughters. They greet friends and comrades... People they can trust and love, at least for a little while. They return to what they know as home. Home... the meaning is lost to me. For so long I've wandered endlessly, with nowhere to lay my head save for solid ivy-covered stone and the dampened bark of the watery swamp of visceral tears of anguish: an anguish I may drown in or struggle endlessly against in helpless despair, far, far away from any eyes or hearts of empathy: A sorrowful twist of the fate of Sisyphus. Worlds and homes: the surface difference is relatively significant, but dwell on the concept and it becomes minimal or even synonymous on the basis of one thing: neither exist without humanity. These things, exist on the material plain to some degree, but half of what defines them are the laws of human social constructs. Yet, I do not live in a world, much less in a home. I am cursed, and descended beyond the spectrum. I live in a hell. Just an endless expanse to be treaded upon till I tread no more. So what is my humanity? Humanity is learned not inherited. It is something you need others for collectively. And all these things are beyond my grasp. They always have been. It's just my nature and the way I grew over time. No salvation, no mercy, no peace, no love, no others. There is just power and the struggle to attain it, to float atop the muddy swamp waters of the weak and downtrodden and not drown with them. That is my "peace" and in that shall I find my home. I desire to attain this power, the power to dominate all the terrible creatures of this dreary and watery abyss.  That if I will drown, I shall drown in tainted waters of crimson rather than self-pity. For it is better to create my own world, my own home, as a garden world of tombs and a home with walls of bones, and conform no longer to a prison, for prisons only hold the living. And I am not alive. I have died a long time ago in this desolation. My heart is one of moss and rock, of time lost, of ancient rage. My eyes have gone blind, the fog takes my sight. My skin has drifted away into rot and parasites. I have nothing. And for that reason alone, I feel the desire to take everything. I feel a rage against the living, yet ironically envy their love. This is my curse, the curse of this bottomless well of madness that lies within me.