How dramatic

Apparently she still loved him after all. Yet they had grown so far apart, he hated her and himself and she hated him. He couldn't behave any differently, a total idiot, unattractive, what did he have to offer, lying down, rejecting. He didn't really know if he could believe himself. Apparently he still loved her after all, but at the same time he wondered what love was. He had lost the feeling for it, he loved many people, the ones he loved most he hated. It was fatiguing, meaningless and bleak, dramatic, tragic, fatiguing. He did not know. He felt like he was in chains, this time something was different. The pain resembled a blunt plate, that had not changed. Dying, that's what you have to do, one way or another. Why not just now, his protector whispered to him from above the skullcap, he floated, slightly connected by glass threads. He did not know. It had already been over, how could it ever start again, but that wasn't the point. He loved her and he loved his freedom, would he ever be free?

"Blurred, I see the surface of my grief, I swim in emptiness. A stab into the right side of my brain, the left side of my chest, the whole surface of my skin becomes immovable, rusty, I choke on possibility. My neck is packed and tied, I send screams, receive delusions, invisible hands, wet, pulling me towards the river, its magic has not left me, the further I approach it, the more it turns into a curse and I into a monstrosity. Only when I reach the bottom does clarity emerge, I drown trying to reach it, panting, whimpering, indecisive, I twitch, stare, freeze. I open my eyes and am at the same point like before, time seems to stand still, my face and mind have aged nevertheless."

He couldn't believe all this, nowhere else on this planet did a person fare as badly as in his own four walls, he had skipped laughing about this statement by two steps and pulled his eyes together, not knowing what to think, he shook his head but only because someone told him to, it fit quite well, his forearm was overstretched. Actually he wanted to let his thoughts have their talk in an inner monologue, but they advised him against it. His finger lay motionless on the keyboard, as if god had pressed pause, he looked at the letters tense and with greatest criticism while he had to explain to himself that the words did not move around the screen, he had just fantasized, the pain almost laughed at him, it knew that someone was trying to drown it out.

Yes. He wrote about pain, had any person on this planet ever done that before him? Probably not. He had already put his mental pain into words but what about his physical pain? His head was full of gas, it pressed against his temples and his cheeks, they would soon burst. A concentrated hammer blow to the top of his head every few seconds, something pulled with great force down the back of his head and neck, maybe it was the guilt. His lungs were black, each swallow was controlled, ice in his throat, small stones, evil. How hilarious it would be if an invisible bag of lead and broken glass were placed over someone's shoulder, because that's exactly how it felt. Two piranhas, gnawing. That was the middle of his back. The lower part was even funnier. Someone was constantly firing ceramics in the shape of a beak cup at the speed of light against his spinal disc, sometimes forcing him to his knees. The rest of his body was relatively spared, sometimes his foot was cramping or his leg made strange noises, meaning that it caused pain that he could not assign. Over the years he had learned to listen to his body very carefully, that was his downfall.