Tag: depression

• Living in Death Pt. III: The Faceless

  We Live in Death. We don’t exist and so, we are cursed to be Faceless.

  

  As Faceless as the many-faced God itself.

  There’s freedom despite the agony we have found. In not being acknowledged or beloved, we have become no one.

  I am No One.

  An assassin you cannot see or hear lurking in your shadows or habitat.

  By the time you feel us, the seventh face, which is death, is all you’ll see.

  Time brings us all to the same place. You can’t shut your ears or close your eyes to it. Its cold embrace will consume you into its abyss. To never be seen or heard from again.

  It’s red blade will ensure your destined death lest you choose to be like some of us.

  Living In Death. Never existing. Faceless.

  No one will mourn you. No one will remember you.

  Even if you survive, who will call you? Who will seek you out? Who will love you? Who would dare miss you?

  No one. Accursed and Tarnished, sentenced to Live in Death.

  To be seen but not acknowledged, heard but not listened to — that is what it means. To work without reward, to link fires but trapped in cold and shadow.

  That is truly what it means to Live in Death.

  10/31/2024

  allhallowseve, assassin, depression, facelessmen, ignored, liveindeath, mentalhealth, poetry, ron322, Writing

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• Living In Death Pt. II: The Unseen

  Living in death.

  

  Where you’re very much alive yet unseen.

  To the living — family, friends and coworkers, you don’t exist.

  They’ll praise and acknowledge one another but when your name is uttered, it’s as though you don’t exist.

  It’s as though nothing was expected of you. It’s as though you mean nothing.

  They will weep, they will groan and perhaps scream on your dying day but once you’re buried or your ash in the wind…you don’t exist.

  I am unseen, unsupported. No acknowledgment of any accomplishments. Endearment is a fleeting thing.

  They’ll want you to reach out but won’t respond to a message unless it involves your offspring. Unless you re-enter the fold you chose to abandon, there’s no celebration of anything in regard to your existence. Truly, a Tarnished of no renown.

  You. Don’t. Exist. You are the Unseen, one Who Lives in Death. Just a living corpse among them. An outcast whose only refuge is retreating from the very reality that will not embrace you.

  You. Don’t. Exist.

  They’ll drive near your proximity in days, have your number to call in different ways and yet the relationship stays the same. You’re as one Who Lives In Death and to them…You. Don’t. Exist.

  By the time they remember that you do, it’ll be too late. For one with a last name, you’re treated like a bastard who’s been sent away to the Night’s Watch at the wall — to never be seen or heard from again.

  You. Don’t. Exist.

  10/30/2024

  depression, eldenring, gameofthrones, mentalhealth, poetry, ron322, thenightswatch, thosewholiveindeath, Writing, youdontexist

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• Living In Death

  It’s what life often feels like.

  I wake up not knowing what time of day it is aside from the Dark Hour itself for most work days.

  No phone calls, texts or conversations on a regular basis from friends or family. Maybe a meme, video or fragmented messages but nothing more.

  More often than not, if I’m not proactive in reaching out, the sound of silence is equivalent to a deafening roar.

  Is this what living in death is truly like? To know that you’re alive but to never heard or be touched by anyone as though you were six feet in the ground?

  Has the overwhelming burden of duty and responsibility become so heavy that, despite expansive means of connection, I am as though cut off from the land of the living by those I love?

  Is it until I’m to be an “In Memoriam” or a message about loss or unforeseen tragedy that I will even be acknowledged as a being of any consequence?

  Or will it be as I’ve seen with many — many tears wept but once I’m six feet under or reduced to ash, the world will move on as though I never existed?

  There will be no butterflies symbolizing my presence. No ravens or crows as my voice, a direwolf for me to roam free in the great northern lands nor an army of undead to haunt those who thought little of me.

  I will be just a muted name in the wind. Is that what will become or me long after I’m gone? Someone that is just a mere amusement but once my story’s over, just a mere comma in the grand scheme of things?

  While I am awake, even on a day or night of no duty, it’s worse than radio silence. You delete those that have agendas when approaching me, it’s a barren wasteland.

  This must be what living in death is. To be alive to none, dead to all yet sentient of the situation.

  Is this the metaphor we found with the Death-Prince? To be spiritually be cut off from all life yet physically living among others?

  Then let it be that. Just black dust in the wind. Air people neglect yet ever present. Darkness ever-present yet ignored. A sentence longed to be read and yet cut off before reaching halfway. A voice muted before it can speak up.

  

  10/20/2024

  death, deathprince, depression, godwyn, legacy, Life, livingdead, livingindeath, memory, mentalhealth, poetry, ron322, Writing

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