Every one is a gear, moving, keeping the machine in check.
Every one a purpose; a statistic. Dispensable but indispensable at the same time.
Affect, stories, experience. Unique but the same; shared.
I have served my purpose.
I’ve stopped caring. Not for myself, of course. I’ve stopped caring for myself a long time ago.
This is why I hate emotions. When I let it fill me, it burns.
Like water in the lungs of a drowning person.
It stings and burns.
But it fills.
But is it fulfilling?
Of course it is. Society says it is. “It makes you feel alive!”
Would you rather be alive in constant torture or dead within calm?
Constant torture that is neither a test nor rewards you. Just unbridled, constant torture.
I’d rather be dead.
I’ve served my purpose.