That dark place feels like a suffocating void where the weight of invisibility crushes every breath. It’s not just being overlooked—it’s watching pieces of yourself, all the sacrifices, all the late nights and battles fought for others, erased by people who benefit from your silence. Accomplishments that once gave you identity turn to shadows, stripped of recognition until you start questioning whether they ever mattered at all. The bitterness grows sharp, almost metallic, whispering that your worth is disposable, that your light was never meant to shine. It’s isolation in plain sight—haunted by the fear that you’ll always be unseen.
Reckless behavior, wishing for death, is more than mere impulsivity or thrill-seeking — it’s a self-sabotaging storm cloaked in stoicism and defiance. It's running headfirst into danger just for the experience. Its not because I dont fear death, but because part of me quietly welcomes it. Every risk taken is a whispered challenged to the reaper: speeding through red lights, provoking violence, numbing with substances, tempting the edge just to see how sharp it is.
It’s not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s subtle — a refusal to protect oneself, indifference to consequences, a pattern of choices that scream “I dare you to take me” without ever saying the words. It's a delicate exchange, stalking your own destruction. Rooted in pain, disillusionment, or an aching need to feel something — even if that something is annihilation. Until you find yourself ready to die every day you wake up.
It’s not about bravery. It’s about a soul that’s tired of treading water daring the ocean to pull em under.