⟢ 𝓐 𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝓲𝓻𝓻𝓸𝓻 ⟢

I tell you, when I saw
Myself in that decrepit mirror
I could hardly recognise my
Own face; as though in only
Several months, I had aged twenty!

My own face hung sorrowfully, eyes bloodshot,
Hands trembling as I ran my fingers over
My coarse skin, at that moment I could
Only attempt to restrain myself
From shattering that mirror as
Soon as I glanced in its direction;
Without regard for the drops of blood that
Would stain my hand.

It was… mortifying, almost;
Despite the simple truth that it was
Only I who gazed upon that tainted
Glass, I could not bare looking at
Myself, me, who had always prided
Myself on my fair appearance.

Do not look at me, dear friend,
For I have found myself in only
The deepest pits of despair, there
Are no words of consolation I could
Receive that would save me from this
All encompassing dread.

Do not think I have not realised;
The reasoning behind my strife, for I
Am not a fool, even I can see
What puts me in this state.

I have not been able to create anything
Of worth, value, nothing.
Even as i pluck up my strength and
Reach into the deepest crevices of my
Mind, there is nothing, and if there
Is nothing; I am nothing.

Dread, that is what i feel,
Constant dread, and it is
Exhaustung; having my work constantly
Forgotten. What if I will never be
Able to write anything ever again?
There is nothing else I can be, I could
Possibly be; but a writer.

Oh, dear friend, it feels
As though I have reached the end
Of my road, and that the only place
People may then see my name is
On my own tombstone…

I have nothing more to give,
To offer, to yield, but my
Mind- weary as it may be
Without it I am nothing.

There will be no one who gazes at me-
Nor my work; not now, not ever.
I am curse to live a life of murk
Of obscurity. Not a single person will
Remember my name; not even you,
I fear.

It appears that even with my mind
I will yet be nothing, not even the
Faintest whispers of my memory, for as long as
I live.