Silent pleas are meaningless in the face of overwhelming odds. The strength to move forward is not always as easy for some than others, yet the others who can afford such staunch accord seem to never comprehend how difficult a task it is to simply rise from bed.
The ones who see most seem to always be most blind to the qualms of those with such resonant concern for the pithy; even the innate ire of one begets the inherent ire of all.
Slowly, thoughts become tangible, changing from empty shadows to a festering aura. It leeches life from all things good and meaningful, and there begins the downfall.
Things which once were the epitome of joy - sometimes subtly, sometimes abruptly - become festering reminders of what once was; they sit rotting at the pit of a dissonant cacophony of sore misdirection, doubt, and unwavering fear, a solemn reminder of yesterday and everything which can not be had anymore.
Anger suffices where patience once stood watch over all interactions. In that brings suffering from doubt for all things said and done, all things come and gone, and all things not yet relevant, real, or existent. The agony builds in each passing moment, staggering and belittling; suffocation enduring, mired belligerent tones of sheer desolation sets the stage for a Grey, toneless perception.
Once stagnant, all fades away. Sounds echo broadly, profusely; words fall short in every regard; feeling stops existing, plight becomes numb: an emptiness no other void can retain or convey becomes standard, and the moment fades away becoming not one, but many. Becoming persistent, real, and the only thing true.
Emptiness suffices where a whole sum of love, experience, and joy once was. All things considered, nothing brings memory of such passions. Nothing breaks the void away. Nothing changes, nothing progresses.
Emptiness consumes everything, even rationality of resolution. All one can think of is escaping this nonsensical devouring void. But it's not possible, because nothing good exists here.
And the cycle repeats
