Nihilism, Madness, and Apathy

Contemplations from a girl with dark thoughts.

My back was placed on the bed in my room. I displayed that look of a glass-eyed nihilist, staring at the ceiling. Prevalent marks of a girl absent in her mind, stuck on my face like curses. I feel languid for the dreary exposure to my own mind. At any mental action, I am brutally throttled, to the point where any capacity to receive even the slightest bit of peace is so unfathomable. This then leads to my being deflating to a sort of pitiful, apathetic, nihilistic, nonchalance: an artsy way of describing this wretched depression, or as I deludedly name it, a cataclysmic awakening. You would probably assume that through this anguish, I would then be formed into a sort of stoic warrior, yet the outcome was predictably unfortunate: my mind has been rendered defenceless and weak: not just in weaponry, but in will. And now, certain thoughts riddle my mind with images: sordid arrays of my character are projected from my ill mind to these glassy eyes, and I believe these projections; I pridefully attribute a value to this cursed craft of a wordsmith, which I utilise to illustrate sprites of falsehood. I idolise these words and language.

These sprites of falsehood have been given immense power, by my disillusionment. As the piper played her tune, so I, follyly enough, followed that sweet tune of insanity. The sprites characteristically projected mesmerising images, promises and the sort of psychopathic idealisation of my ideal self. I’m going insane.

My reminiscion of this dome of hell halted when my brother, Alexander, had stabbed the outer shell with a curt and rage-inducing knock on my bedroom door. He had then stated that we were late for a family outing to that big brick box of wealth, named Biltmore. ‘I thought you wanted to view this place,’ He had added to his infuriating call which aroused a confusing anger in me that my apathy didn’t allow to bloom into anything notable. A slump and rustle echoed from the opposing side; Alexander claimed my door by leaning on it from the opposing side. ‘Nice estate. It’s a grand thing– aesthetic.’ He said to me, in a way which felt as though he threw words at me mindlessly for me to catch them. His tone was monotone and his words were dumb, typically marking the start of his rambling to himself. I used this time to school my expressions and general falsified disposition to something befitting of expectation. I knew that people would note there to be something eccentric about me today, but I thought that I should do good to conceal it as much as possible, especially in a place such as Biltmore.

Homicidal thoughts riddle my mind; I don’t know how to stop it and mindfulness seems to be a humiliating copium. My mind is fragmented; dualism couldn't be any more apparent.