The peculiar form of clarity

For most of my adult life, I have striven to mitigate my perception of isolation and suffering. The methods have been varied, as have my degrees of success, but the drive has remained constant and corrosive. At last, after nearly 48 years, the cumulative corruption has reached a point where a semblance of goal has been reached; I no longer have the ability to be fully aware of reality. Unfortunately, this has not lead to an alleviation of my pain; rather it has simply added a new layer of trepidation to the burden of dread I already carry.

I willed with all my being to be insensible to reality, and in doing so condemned myself to dwell in a realm beyond the grasp of sense. Here, the terror may be unreal, but not less terrifying for that; my growing horror unreasonable, but past the reach of reason. My apprehension lies slathered with just enough apathy to permit me to shamble between moments without being frozen by fear, but I lack the discernment to navigate towards any worthwhile destination. Eviscerating my soul has left me a shade that wanders through an indistinguishable labyrinth of shadow and illumination, substituting motion for progress.

In rare moments of insight, I retain just enough perception to ascertain the depths of desperation in which I dwell, and comprehend the utter hopelessness of escape. It is this peculiar form of clarity that remains my last link to humanity. Once it is severed, I know not what will be.