
Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,610
I didn't ask for this. I didn't agree to be thrown into this pit, into this decaying meat cage called a body, into a world where survival itself is a punishment.
So I ask — who or what enslaved me in this?
No one gave me a choice. No one gave me a reason. Just pain, expectation, and silence.
They say life is a gift. But it's a gift wrapped in blood, bound in fear, and sealed with death. A gift you can't return.
If there is an enslaver, it isn't one thing. It's a web of blind, brutal forces:
Nature — cold and indifferent. It doesn't care if I scream or break. It doesn't listen. It just moves on, crushing what it made.
Biology — a dictator in my own flesh. It commands me to eat, breathe, suffer, need, rot. It demands obedience to its cycles, and punishes every refusal.
Society — a prison wrapped in routine. Work or starve. Smile or be cast out. Obey or be broken. Conform to lies just to survive another day in a system built to drain me.
Creation itself — if there was a creator, it is either incompetent, malevolent, or utterly absent. No wise mind would craft a world so full of agony and call it "life."
I am here without consent. That alone is violence.
I am not free. I am not whole. I am bound to a game I never agreed to play — one where the rules are pain, the reward is more struggle, and the ending is always death.
And they dare tell me to be grateful?
No.
This isn't gratitude. This is raw clarity. This is the unfiltered truth that so many fear to face:
That existence, as it stands, is a sentence.
And we are prisoners in a burning, collapsing cell.
But I will not let them gaslight me into silence.
I know what this is.
And I name it:
Hell.
So I ask — who or what enslaved me in this?
No one gave me a choice. No one gave me a reason. Just pain, expectation, and silence.
They say life is a gift. But it's a gift wrapped in blood, bound in fear, and sealed with death. A gift you can't return.
If there is an enslaver, it isn't one thing. It's a web of blind, brutal forces:
Nature — cold and indifferent. It doesn't care if I scream or break. It doesn't listen. It just moves on, crushing what it made.
Biology — a dictator in my own flesh. It commands me to eat, breathe, suffer, need, rot. It demands obedience to its cycles, and punishes every refusal.
Society — a prison wrapped in routine. Work or starve. Smile or be cast out. Obey or be broken. Conform to lies just to survive another day in a system built to drain me.
Creation itself — if there was a creator, it is either incompetent, malevolent, or utterly absent. No wise mind would craft a world so full of agony and call it "life."
I am here without consent. That alone is violence.
I am not free. I am not whole. I am bound to a game I never agreed to play — one where the rules are pain, the reward is more struggle, and the ending is always death.
And they dare tell me to be grateful?
No.
This isn't gratitude. This is raw clarity. This is the unfiltered truth that so many fear to face:
That existence, as it stands, is a sentence.
And we are prisoners in a burning, collapsing cell.
But I will not let them gaslight me into silence.
I know what this is.
And I name it:
Hell.