I wake up early, before the sun fully rises, the warmth of the blankets around me tempting me to stay a little longer. But the day is already waiting for me, and I have things to do. I get up slowly, stretching as I listen to the birds outside, the soft breeze moving through the open window. I take a deep breath, and the familiar smell of the morning hits me—earthy, fresh, full of possibility.
I can hear the sound of the cows lowing in the distance, and the chickens clucking as they wake up. It's the same every morning, but it's a rhythm I've come to love. I slip on my boots and make my way outside, feeling the coolness of the earth beneath my feet. The sky is clear, and there's a quiet in the air, like the whole world is holding its breath.
The work is hard, but it's familiar, and I don't mind it. I enjoy it, actually. There's something satisfying about knowing that every small task I complete today is one step closer to tomorrow's harvest, one step closer to the future. The plants grow under my care, and the animals are healthy and content. It feels right to be here, doing this, every day. There's a sense of purpose to it.
I stop for a break around noon, sitting on the porch with my bread, cheese, and a piece of fruit from the orchard. I watch the clouds drift lazily across the sky, their shapes shifting and changing, but always staying the same. The light breeze stirs the leaves in the trees, and for a moment, I think, This is what it's all about. This is peace.
There's no rush today. No hurry. I have time. Time to work, time to enjoy the small things. I watch the way the light catches the tips of the grass, how the shadows of the trees stretch and shift across the fields as the sun moves. I don't need anything more. This is enough.
Later in the evening, I sit with my family around the table. My wife smiles as she serves the stew, and my children laugh, arguing over who will sit next to who. The fire crackles in the hearth, and the warmth spreads through the room. It's a quiet kind of happiness. I look around at them—my wife, my children—and I feel something deep inside me. Gratitude, maybe. A sense of being whole.
We eat and talk, the sounds of life swirling around me. The days pass, one after the other, and everything seems simple. There's nothing complicated about it. I don't need more. I've never wanted more. I'm content with this—this small life, with these small joys. It's enough.
But every now and then, in the quiet moments when I'm alone, I start to think. Just for a moment. At first, it's nothing. Just a fleeting thought, something that can be easily pushed away. But then it comes again, and this time, I don't ignore it. It lingers in the back of my mind, like a shadow that won't leave. The thought of death.
I try not to think about it too much. I try not to dwell on it, but it's always there. Waiting. And the more I think about it, the more it takes hold. It starts to eat at me. The idea that everything—my family, my work, all of this—will one day be gone. That I won't be here to see the seasons change, to tend the fields, to hear the laughter of my children.
It's silly, I tell myself. Everyone thinks like this. Everyone fears death. But the more I try to push it away, the louder it gets. What will happen when I'm gone? What happens to everything I've built, everything I've loved?
I can't stop thinking about it. And then, one day, it strikes me: I won't just lose everything. I'll lose myself. My thoughts, my memories—everything that makes me who I am. I can't even hold on to that.
The fear grows, a quiet kind of panic that creeps in when I least expect it. It fills the small moments, when I'm alone and the house is quiet. The more I try to push it away, the more it consumes me, like a hunger I can't satisfy. What if it's all pointless? What if nothing I do here matters? What if I just fade away, nothing left of me but dust?
The fear becomes harder to ignore. It eats at the edges of my mind, like a hunger I can't satisfy. Every time I try to enjoy a simple moment, it's there. And I can't seem to escape it. I watch the days pass, one after another, and all I can think about is how they'll end. How I will end.
And that's when it happens. Slowly, at first. But it's undeniable. I begin to reject it. I reject everything—the work, the joy, the memories. I reject the people I love. If it's all going to end, if I'm just going to fade into nothingness, why bother? Why hold on to anything at all?
I slip away from the life I've built. The warmth of the fire, the laughter around the table—it all feels so distant now. I can't find the meaning in any of it. It's all too fleeting. Too temporary.
At evening, the house is full of warmth and laughter. It's my daughter's birthday, and there's a small celebration—just the family. My wife made a cake, and the children are excited, their faces lit up with joy. My daughter smiles brightly as she blows out the candles, her eyes sparkling with the simple happiness of being surrounded by those who love her. They're all so alive, so full of energy, and I want to feel that too.
But I can't.
I sit there, watching them, hearing their laughter, but I feel so distant from it all. It's like I'm watching a world that no longer belongs to me, a world that's fading away no matter how hard I try to hold on. The cake, the singing, the joy—it all feels so meaningless. Nothing matters. I try to smile, try to feel the warmth of the moment, but it slips through my fingers like sand.
As they continue to celebrate, I sit quietly, lost in my thoughts. I look at my daughter, my wife, and I think of all the years we've spent together, all the memories we've made. And yet, all I can think about is how it will all be gone one day. Every laugh, every hug, every moment—it will be swallowed up by time. My daughter will grow up, my wife will age, and I will… I will be nothing. It's inevitable. The more I try to grasp at the joy of the moment, the more I realize that it's just another fleeting thing, like everything else.
And that's when it hits me. All of it. I can't hold on to it anymore. I can't even feel the joy anymore. I've lost the ability to enjoy the life I once loved. All the work, all the laughter, all the simple pleasures—they mean nothing. They're just distractions, meaningless distractions from the one thing I can't escape: death.
I stand up quietly, unnoticed by the others. The room is filled with chatter, but I feel like I'm fading out of it. I walk out the door, leaving the celebration behind. They don't even notice I'm gone.
Outside, the night is cool. The stars are scattered across the sky, but they seem so far away, like they have no meaning anymore. I stand there for a long time, just looking up at them, the quiet stillness pressing in on me. The wind brushes past me, but it doesn't feel real. Nothing does.
I don't know how long I stand there, but eventually, I make my way back inside. The house is silent now. The laughter has stopped, and I hear my family in the other room, unaware of the change in me.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to keep living like this. So, I go to bed, but sleep doesn't come. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything crushing down on me. And as I lie there, I feel myself slipping further and further away from everything. From my family, from my life, from myself.
I don't want to move. I don't want to do anything anymore. I don't want to feel. I just want to be nothing.
And so I close my eyes, and for the first time, I let the nothingness take me.
And at that moment, Abyss came to be.