/lit/ - Literature

>>19294617
When will this grind be over?
I drag myself forward day after day after day waiting for some sort of consolation, for some rest, as little as it may be. I try to convince myself that rest will come when I get to finally die, but is it? It seems so distant for some reason. So distant, in fact, that it is not enough to give me hope anymore: I don't know if I can keep it for much longer.
I forbid myself of blaming God for anything, I try to take every blow and be grateful for it:
>"thanks, God, for it happened to me and not no anyone else";
But they just keep coming: blow after blow after blow. No time to recover before the second one hits. And why is all this for? I stopped "learning" after a while, I don't think they're amounting to anything but pain anymore. I don't think I'm becoming a better person for taking them gratefully anymore.

I'm starting to feel resentful. And I don't want to. I don't want to utter these words who're eating me alive, wanting so desperately to come out of my chest. Feels like burning, writhing parasites inside of me. But I know if I let them out, they'll never be unlet: such sin of mine will be marked for eternity.

I don't even think I can write anything, really. Get to a point in writing, that is. Only swirl down and down in anguish, humiliating myself in such pressurizing, suffocating mental abyss, feels like a microwave in here.

What is it that I am supposed to find deep down, bros?

I'll let you know if I come out the other side.