Day 8: Monday, 19.34 p.m.
I haven't been writing for a while.
The past few days have been kind of mellow and hazy, and I can't quite recall what I ate, where I slept, or what I've been doing. Some sort of darkness, with neither a body nor a soul, entrapped me in a hollow space where light didn't shine and sound wouldn't resonate.
I didn't feel scared, not even an atomic ounce.
Rather, I felt relieved. Relieved to be away from everyone and everything. Even if that darkness chose to suffocate me with its feather of obsidian tendrils, I wouldn't have protested.
Sitting there idly, I had nothing but time to reflect on myself, despise my actions, and loathe my soul. And it dawned upon me. I do not know anymore what it feels like to be happy. I simply don't.
I scrambled down my memory lane to discover instances where I lived in a trance of joy. I couldn't.
There were circumstances that were worthy of happiness, but my heart was just veiled away.
Ever present was only one, solo feeling. Melancholy.
I am weaved in melancholy. The color of my blood is blue. My eyes see shades of gray, and I breathe a gloomy air. My food tastes stale, and drinks taste like mud.
What good is life, where I can't feel joy?
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