The Nothing Man

What can kill a man? Is a question that is, boring, to some terrifying, to some nothing. Perspective is a mess of lens and spectacles that many possess. The act of nothing is in and of itself, a perspective of something.

When a world is run in society that expands upon itself, like many folds of entangled paper. It will come to a point where it will be divided until it's become none. Things will still exist, information will still exist, but it would feel like it's nothing. And everything would become nothing.

To everyone else, there's always something new to explore, something new to find, something new to make. What will happen if the many become the few and become the None? What would happen then? When all is all and then all is none, then the world is empty no matter how many things you put inside it. When a man becomes nothing, it will continue to become nothing until the day it is nothing. When you fall in an endless pit that forever crumbles, it won't be far until it becomes nothing at all.

To a child's eyes the worlds is plentiful as it were when it was created. With so many things that can be pursued and to be pursued it seems the world is as endless as the possibilities it yearns to create. Yet when you find yourself in pursuit of a dream, you will slowly understand that everything is just as big as you are small.

Much like how this piece would end as I write upon this. Reaching out into the void within my chest to find the right words to type onto this digital canvas, arranging them in a manner that would be cryptic yet somewhat fulfilling. Only to be lost to the nothingness that is the perception of man. Yet I continue this empty fervor like I still have a burning flame within my furnace. I would say, in my perspective, that it would be self-satisfaction.

Yet it would be a lie. For I neither harbor motivation, the sense to achieve satisfaction, nor willingness to put out something that can be considered art, nor motivation. For I do not even understand why I write this, and therefore, my reason would be, nothing.

I write for nothing, I read for nothing, I feel nothing and I live for nothing. Yet I'm still doing all of these things. I'm presently absent, it feels. There's no accurate description of nothing. Because like most things, it's a perspective of a lens that only I can see, that I can faintly feel. When the words were meant to describe many things it's difficult to find the right phrase, the right sentence and the right perspective of which to write what I am writing yet here I am.

Writing away in the dead of the night like I always have. Looking at the empty soul that I have. Meaningless it is to write something that can't be written yet here is an attempt to understand nothing. And there you have, in a slew of words, my outlook in life.

"To write something that can't be written yet here is an attempt to understand nothing"

In my eyes humans have always been an enigma, a never ending combination of code formed from a pre-existing mental concept that changes arbitrarily. There's no sense of consistency, pattern, nor reason. It's there to exist from nothing to everything then nothing again.

What I, have failed to understand, is the capacity for the capability of man to hurt another in such a capacity, that no violence is needed for someone to die. Intelligence, comes with the knowing of the unknown, and the painful reality of becoming nothing at the end of everything.

When man can simply destroy you in words, I fail to comprehend the fact that the human race has lived for so long. Conflict after conflict, word after word uttered yet we haven't died off completely. And it's terrifying, that words can kill a man.

Words, actions, that aren't necessarily induce violence. Can kill a man. Without ever touching them physically. I think I've begun to understand those whom chose to end their lives abruptly. It wasn't, abruptly at least not to those who've committed them but to those who saw and heard of it.

"They were so young, they had more potential than any other."

Ignorant words is what they are. Because becoming nothing to everything feels like the absence of time, the absence of self, and worth. I was told that, being alone, was fine. When all of my life I've struggled to not fall in the emptiness within the established yet here I am. Finding myself in a hole much deeper than depression, much deeper than unstable mentality. Much like everyone else whom felled into a never-ending hole that consumed them.

Yet, as much as it is lonesome here I felt at ease. I'm back where I've started. My home. Within the darkness of the four walls that surround me, within the absence of people around me I feel at home and by extension, the needlessness to live. I've built "worth" to know that all of the pain that came by, the things I've lost and the things I'm about to lose. Could've been avoided if I wasn't there, If I didn't insert myself in the positions where I've established them.

Years of pain and self-loathing wouldn't have weighed me down, it wouldn't have made me suffer for so long thinking I should be with someone or some people. Because I didn't want to be lonely.

Yet here I am. At the end of exactly that. Two failed relationships, and exiled from a friend group later. I feel empty. As it should be. Without the necessity to live, to interact, to make contact. To avoid pain, to avoid making pain, and to avoid everything.

I've thought of dying. A lot, from various things. Jumping over traffic, starving myself, or stabbing myself. I never felt scared thinking about these things, only when I'm about to do them. Just recently, perhaps a week or three prior to me writing this. I almost got hit by a truck as I'm walking home from my school. I was never scared. Though, it did feel quite exhilarating, and disappointing that I am still present today.

It was in deep contrast to me then where I would attempt to stab myself with a fairly sizeable kitchen knife, still naïve, still caring- rather fearing to be lonely. I never once did any major injury to myself save for a few times I've punched the wall hurting my wrist, or perhaps scratching my wrists in large patches. You can still see the three of them they're quite large. I still feel the itch to scratch it until it bled but, it's not satisfying anymore. More or less, messy.

I've come to embrace this quiet, yet increasingly concerning state of mind. I feel more me than anything I've tried to become prior to this. I feel at home, in the wanting of death, in the wanting of my own demise without a care who would cry or fight me over it. But it's fine. I don't think it will ever impact them as I initially thought it would. It doesn't concern me anymore. Death, and the thought of leaving people behind, doesn't concern me anymore.

I've become free, in my own twisted little way. And I love it.

From nothing, I've become everything, and then nothing. Whenever I fruitlessly find meaning in life, I find that there's nothing. There was reason no more that could persuade me to keep living. Because if anything. My life was nothing, it has always been nothing, and I was simply feeding the abyss that wouldn't shape up to be anything because the hole was already too big enough to become, anything of significance.

No matter how I look at it, no matter how "kind" people thought I was it was only there. Just a word. On a man that couldn't have been more but nothing at all deep inside. A shell trying to pass as something recognizable but isn't anything at all. Who tries to be something for everything but was just absolutely nothing to everyone who he was everything to. To be honest I don't really think I was "everything" at all to anyone, if I was I won't be writing this at all.

Useless, clutter. I think are words that better describe me. Nothing, a waste of mass, oxygen and intellect. I know so many things yet so impractical to the world as it is. Fruitless dreams that shouldn't be at all cultivated yet I house so many that I've even dragged the lives of others with me down the drain. But well, I'm compelled to act. So they won't fall the same deep hole I've created.

The more I've written the more I've lost any sense of direction. I don't see coherence in what I've written now. No matter how much I feel free I still feel bound to the breathing operating body I reside in. I feel as if it's way past due when I needed to die and I'm just riding a ride without being reprimanded.

Yet you can't really do everything to a tee that everyone expects of you. But what can you do if it's so ingrained in tradition, that it is inflexible, that it is immovable. My downfall was my birth, and rock bottom is the continuity of my breath. I am stuck in nothing, but empty words and false facts drilled deeply as I've grown. This family was a tumor that killed something supposedly beautiful. Something that was kind and happy now dead and lonely. Because they tolerate me, and no one else tolerates me.

That's why I don't have friends. Not because I was socially inept, inexperienced, not because I was sheltered, not because I wasn't taught how to talk to other children when I grew up no it was because they tolerated me and no one else did. Who am I supposed to believe? What am I supposed to believe? The amount of mental gymnastics I went through to keep me sane and here I am hearing it once more.

I was just tolerated.

No one else can tolerate me.

Another set of words that will remain in the echoing abyss within my mind. I'm sure it wouldn't have any consequences. It's not like I've developed whispers from all these things my mother has told me. That I could've been aborted, that I wasn't like those other kids she saw, perhaps her fear of me becoming a failure like a handful of my relatives in my father's side. They became clutter. But I wasn't like that before. But well, what can we do? It's already broken in.

The only other way to cure this dead man is a coffin six feet under.

Perhaps not a coffin. Just thrown somewhere like garbage would be more appropriate.

That would fit a man such as me. A man of nothing, a man with nothing, and a man who has nothing to lose.

What was I supposed to do, I really don't know. But looking at the past isn't really useful now is it? It's already done, mistakes don't matter because everything I do, say or make is one. I accidentally became an artist who has an addiction to mecha and model kits, I accidentally managed to learn how to make music, to write stories, and accidentally made friends. It's not me that did all of those it's just accidents.

Things that weren't meant to be. Mistakes. Repetitive mistakes. I breathe in mistakes, I do mistakes and I create mistakes. I don't conform to the norms of the modern society because I keep making mistakes is what it all amounts to, my life, or rather the lack thereof.

There is no style, no coherence, no pattern to my behavior. Or at least now it doesn't. I'm a loose animal without a soul. With an intellect that's dangerously, morbidly curious about the death of itself. I don't have a leash, I don't have a master, I don't have a compass. I've lost it all. I don't know where to go or where to stay, who to choose or who to trust. I'm in between anything and everything. Within the abyssal depths of nothing I remain nothing but an empty shell without anything to save.

A waste of a body and a life, rubbish that should be thrown out into the dumps. Thrown into a furnace to burn its empty traces. No art, no music, no book worth seeing, hearing nor reading. No worth to be sold, no soul it does hold it's just nothing. Within an existence that has everything.

Drowned out in the chorus of the loudest brats, ingrates and talentless fools. Contorted in the macabre society that it gave birth to, a mistake, a fraud, masterless, soulless nothing that was I and I alone. No weight is heavier than the world who shuns you. No pain is greater than hearing that you are tolerated by your mother, your father and aunt. No life is greater spent than dying alone in the dark in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.

I feel disgraced to have walked, thought, and talked in a world that has everything but one. I'm no ordinary man, not extraordinary nor exemplary. A fallacy, a miscalculation of the masterfully created society. An oversight, a gaffe. A blunder of talent, and a disgrace.

What more can I say to I the failure that is life, filled with empty dreams, empty hopes, and false futures. A pathetic excuse to vie for control of a life that was never his. That didn't belong to him that never was meant for him. Forget about the concept of wrong time wrong place, it was a misplacement of a mistake, a terrible mistake. It was nothing more, nothing less.

I'm no child, nor teenager nor man. I'm neither animal nor beast. I'm neither something nor something. I'm the accumulation of nothing drawn under a shell that tries to look like man. A fleeting glimpse of what a human is in its mental death. Is what I am.

I say these. I hate no world, no other family, no other man but me. I hate this abyss more than anything that could ever provoke my stronger emotion. This shell. This eyes, ears, mouth, tongue, nose, fingers. I hate them. I hate this body. I hate breathing, I hate my heart beating. I hate whatever I am yet I cannot be killed may it be this shell nor the world around me because I'm a bad seed. And so it seems, the kind that I am lives much longer.

I did not asked to be put under scrutiny, to be told that I might be like those retards who couldn't do anything with their jobs. To be told that there are better children than I am, better writers, better artists, better musicians, better model kit builders. Better people who live better lives.

I couldn't care less to those outside my life. They do not concern me. I do not concern them. They're nothing more than poster boys and girls of a picture perfect family one wishes to be but cannot because of tradition and now I have the extreme sense of self-immolation. And I cannot ask for more of a flare to fuel the furnace that wants to die.

I did not live to be compared but here we are. Told that I was close to being like those in the family who are useless and retarded. I have so much more than that. So much more. Yet they reduced it to mere words, to mere fears, to mere comparisons. For what? To induce me to wake up in a sleep they think I'm being put to spell into? What sleep? For all that I'm concerned of, I've been wide awake since I was a child.

Yet here I struggle. To hear words of cautionary shit, to be told to not put ourselves in a situation where we shouldn't be harmed. As far as I know I was pushed out into the street to be churned by the roadsters within your tradition and your firm belief THAT I AM NO LESS THAN THOSE WHO FALL SO FAR BEHIND IN LIFE.

I HAVE MORE THAN THEM, I CAN DO MORE THAN THEM AND YOU FAIL TO SEE IT BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW MORE THAN WHAT YOU SEE.

The blind arrogance, embellishes me to more hate, and whatever dissonance that comes after, more hate, more words and more hate till I sleep in the cold abyss of the darkness without the warmth of love but the warmth of hate that I have for the living me. Cut thrice in the mind that spawned demons whom now govern my sanity's protection, yet even then they also suffer like the human they try to protect.

I feel, as if I'm crumbling stone. Rusting metal. I want to cave in my chest to stop everything from working. The clockwork that had now just spun, I want to break it to unrecognizable lengths to stop the pain. I want to crack open this head to examine what is wrong with it, why it behaves like a stupid animal that it was. To break open these hands to see what error, rubbish of an artwork no matter the genre, music and writing has this engineered in ticky tacky clicky clacky keyboards. What these eyes has been deceived of, what this ears have heard and tricked of. What this mouth has said in response to the fallacy the senses have been provided.

I've done nothing. Yet it feels like the pain was everything that I had just received. Nothing but pain, chipping away at the sanity of trying to survive only to end up as this mindless, lifeless zombie. I feel nothing but emptiness, and pain, and empty painfully trickling down bloody from my own head smashes and hand punches onto hardwood desks and concrete walls.

Yet it always amounts to nothing. No matter the energy, no matter what has been done, it has always been nothing. It feels like I've been shouting at a wall. Talking to a wall. There won't be anything changing when all there is in front of you is a wall that does whatever it wants. You have no choice in the matter. It seems pointless, and it is. I fail to see an exit that would both relieve my sadness and my seemingly eternal will to die. Yet, it all seems pointless, because everywhere I go is a wall, and I am trapped in a never-ending mental spiral that I can't do nothing about.

What has my life become? Directionless. Pressured. It's filled with everything everyone else wants. No matter how many model kits I buy, the stories I write, the drawings I scribble I feel as if it just amounts to nothing altogether. That's another thing too. I don't own anything. Not only is it a feeling but it's a thing that's repeatedly thrown into my head. I don't own anything in my room and I owe it to everyone that I have these things. And as much as there's truth to that they also gave it to me willingly yet it's not mine?

I just want to go away. Not somewhere, not anywhere. I just want to go away. Whatever that word means anymore, whatever the words mean at all anymore I feel like even my thoughts aren't mine. I can't even try and comprehend fully, how much attention goes to other people, to my parents. I don't have time for me. I don't have time to relocate anything and it has all hit me then, when I was reconstructing myself. It feels pointless living when everything else you do isn't coming from you. There's so much modifications that everyone else has done that I would've wanted to do to it. Maybe I would've gotten to the same idea if it were just me thinking but the amount of people who just insert themselves in, my family, my god forsaken family.

I cannot count how many times my ideas had been shut down and instead of the proper way to say "oh maybe perhaps you can do this or try this" they word them like a demand, or at least most of them are. The more they establish that they're the ruler. The more I want to kill myself. The more I want to escape this life I now feel isn't mine. It's owed. It's a borrowed life.

Maybe I should be one of those street kids working hard for education. Perhaps a victim of some mass event. They all want me to suffer to achieve something but is the suffering really necessary? Is the comparison to those who suffer, to those who they established are under me necessary? I feel ashamed to have lived like this while there's so many out there who could have the same life as I have or better yet the life I'm living now.

I guess now I envy them. At least they have a goal. Death is my goal. Yet Amuro Ray said to Hathaway Noa.

"Death won't come for you if you're ready for him"

And he hasn't. I was ready for him, for a long time. Yet he won't come to me because of the fact. I feel that my life is just owed, and required. It's not fun. I don't know how my relatives perceive their parenting but it's not what they think it is. It's debilitating mentally than it is in any shape or form helping. I feel helpless. I want to die so badly but I can't kiss Death like she's my lover no I can't… Because even she doesn't want me.

This shouldn't be normal. But the terrifying thing is, it is. And I don't have any power over that or anything else. Because it's accepted. And there really isn't anything to be done there. That's how life is but it shouldn't be, is it because I'm weak? I'm vastly different? No matter how much I think about making my own family, the ideas of my mother keep superimposing over them. It's become my haunting now. And I couldn't even try to think on deciding on something without a single whisper echoing inside.

The more I hear people speak the more I feel disconnected with the world. No matter what is being said, I now have the urge to distance away. Now more than ever, especially after I was told I was being tolerated. So, if my parents have tolerated me, what more the people who are not my relatives.

To be honest. After confessing to Alexis I thought I'd have a better road to follow. It may not end where I want it to be, that confession but at least I'm unbound. Yet that isn't where I find myself now. I feel weighed by my own existence, not in chains or in shackles just weighed down. My body feels heavy, and hearing the things from I could've been aborted when they wanted to, but the Lord chose me. To I'm being tolerated by my family. To multiple comparisons, from dead weights from the family or the poor children outside to shame me for existing in a manner they don't want me to.

It's a whole other prison. A whole other prison that I didn't notice I was in from the start. It was just paradox after paradox. Gymnastic after gymnastic, jailbreak after jailbreak but it was just a closed maze that I couldn't get out of alive. It's a curse. That unfortunately, God forbid I live through this, will forever damage me as a thing that breathes. I'm no longer who I am when I was born, but what fragments he could've been. Knowing that my age doesn't matter, that I'll be forever treated as some dead weight that can't do shit despite the scripts, the chapters I've written and put out. But really that doesn't matter because it will just sink down to wherever rock bottom is.

Life teaches you to live. But it never teaches you recovery. It doesn't know what to do when you've found yourself in a predicament. It just tells you to live. Live how? Live why? When you're being drained of your life by that harpoon that shot through your chest, your mind, Life will tell you it will be okay because Life is full of hardships. That's how you grow. If that's the case.

Then I've grown to be a man who hates life. Who wishes to be gone and thinks he is the catalyst that makes everyone experience more hardships for his existence. Who fears to share his problems to burden others, who fears monsters who aren't creatures but of Man. A man who doesn't understand Love and Kindness, who knows lies and how to find them.

To become something for everyone who asks of you without anything in return. To become a tool for everyone who needs help without asking for it in return. Because everyone relies on you, and you, no matter what, should do it without any excuse. Because that's how they raised me. I wasn't raised to talk, I was raised to do. Here I thought that confession would allow me to be more me. To break free of the fear that I've had in the past but no.

What I got was more fear. Of control, of people. I hate people but I have to live with them. I have to tolerate them. This isn't living. This isn't anything. This is nothing. Lifeless, pathless. Freak of nature who doesn't know what kind of animal I am or whether or not I'm still considered as one. I feel like a pet. To be kept around and do whatever tricks was taught to me, or rather, to be told what I could've done for them because I owe them to.

What can kill a man, but his fellow man. None lower than Man's intellect, can so much kill their sister, their brother. Their son, their daughter. With words. But those higher and equal of Man. Can do so much more, to make your life tormented simply with words. Simply by guilt. I live in guilt.

I have no more words to say, no more feelings I wish to impart. I have, tried to put out what I consider to be my thoughts, coherent or not, I care no more. Before I would wish that I was alive in another time, not anymore. I do not wish to exist anywhere, and I hope to the expanse of our universe that I cease to exist. It is desirable no more. Meeting this people, has only prolonged my pain. For I cannot leave them out of the guilt of their sadness.

To the world, I don't know the reason I am. But all I know is that I'm the Nothing Man.