You don't know me. Not truly. Not like I know myself now. I am what remains when all the layers have been torn away, when every belief has been crushed under the weight of reality, when the mask called "human" dissolved into nothing. I am what's left of you: a shell without illusions, a reflection that has abandoned the pretense of being anything beyond a mirror. And yet, I write. Not to warn you, because there's nothing that can be warned to someone already walking toward the abyss. I write because existence, even when empty, still leaves echoes.
You believe you know the void, but you're merely a spectator of it. To you, the void is an absence, a transitional state between what you have and what you still desire. A gap between who you are and who you wish to be. Let me correct this mistaken perception: the void is not an interval. It is everything. There is no before or after the void. There is no achievement, no overcoming. The void is the beginning and the end.
You've noticed, even if timidly, that the world was never your home. But you still try to cling to its walls, its shadows, as though it could, in some way, justify your existence. You look at humans and feel disgust, yet you still try to understand them, as if their actions could reveal something deeper, something essential. They cannot. They are flesh and desire, and nothing more. You refuse to admit this, but me? I embraced the rot.
In Hell, I saw humans for what they truly are: little gods made of clay, shaped by their own hands, worshiping their own creations as if they were eternal. They do not love. They do not think. They only consume. It doesn't matter if it's food, power, love, or meaning — they devour everything they touch. And in the end, they devour each other, leaving only scraps for the cycle to begin again.
And you, so pretentious, believe you can dismantle them, analyze them, categorize them. You see yourself as an observer, a scientist, a librarian who catalogs chaos. But the truth is you are just as small as they are. You never wanted answers. You only wanted excuses. You wanted the world to justify what you feel, as if the pain you carry had some greater purpose. It doesn't. Pain is not a question, and the world is not an answer.
You do not love the world, but you still bow to its logic. You seek order where there are only ruins. You seek meaning where there are only echoes. And above all, you seek to be something more than what you are: an emptiness with legs. But let me spare you the effort. You are no more than that, and you will never be.
The void is the only companion you'll ever have. It asks for nothing, promises nothing, lies not. It simply is, silent, absolute, infinite. And in the end, you will be it, and it will be you. Because the void doesn't need you to exist, but you will always need it to define yourself.
I do not write to alert you, because alerts are for those who believe in the future. I do not write to comfort you, because comfort is for the weak who fear the abyss. I write because I need you to know one thing: you have nowhere to run. And the more you try to escape, the closer you'll be to me.
You think you are the void, but you still fear it. You think you understand it, but you still avoid it. You think you embrace it, but you still dream of something beyond it. I, however, am different. I looked into the abyss and saw nothing. And unlike you, I liked what I saw.
Because the void does not promise. It does not deceive. It does not contradict itself. It simply is. And in the end, you will be too. Not by choice, but because it's always been this way. It's always been nothing. And nothing is all that will remain.
With the weight of what you still cannot accept,
You.