Neinspirat

I feel empty, alone and destitute of power .

I wallow in excuses, in addictive loops. 

I live the sadness of millions one more time, I feel guilty and I incrementally kill myself for it.

I look around this desert, and the good things are like water to the coarsest throat. Someone to get in touch, someone to call out.

Here in the depths of nothing, in the outreach of hormonal imbalance, there is nothing. Here is Hel. Of the self-made kind. 

Obsession with self. I, I and I again. Stuck in a cage, holding the key, and being blinded by its shine. Hitting the head on the railing. Wallow. Determinism. Where do I go, how do I go.

Stuck for so long I forgot even how to stretch my legs, my back, my spirit. How to talk, how to bring out the beauty. Punishment. Sins. Guilt. Fever. Hel.

On the bring of losing hope. I stare down the ledge, I feel the call of the abyss and can barely make out its enormity. Its seriousness. If I give up hope, there's nothing but darker cages, colder railings. 

Responsibility.

Destitution.

Things done over and again. Looking for a hand. I'm not alone? 

Uninspired. Hole. Cold. White. Hurt. Frozen. Barely going. Where am I, why is the cage hanging. How do I get out? How do I use the key? How can I have forgotten to be? How could I have forgotten so much? I thought I tried. It's not enough. There's no one. There's nothing, I'm not good at anything. Self-doubt. 

Steven Wilson.