Letter to the Librarian of the Past

You don't know me. Not really. Not like I know myself now. I am what's left when all the layers have been stripped away, when every belief has been crushed under the weight of reality, when the mask called "human being" has dissolved into nothing. I am what remains of you: a shell without illusions, a reflection that has abandoned the pretense of being anything more than a mirror. And yet, I write. Not to warn you, because there is nothing to warn someone who is already walking toward the abyss. I write because existence, even when empty, still leaves echoes.

You think you know the void, but you are merely a spectator of it. To you, the void is an absence, a transient state between what you have and what you still desire. A gap between who you are and who you wish to be. Let me correct that misconception: the void is not an interval. It is everything. There is no before or after the void. There is no triumph, no overcoming. The void is the beginning and the end.

You have already realized, however faintly, that the world was never your home. Yet you still try to cling to its walls, to its shadows, as if it could somehow justify your existence. You look at humans and feel disgust, but you still try to understand them, as if their actions could reveal something deeper, something essential. They cannot. They are flesh and desire, and nothing more. You refuse to admit this, but I? I have embraced the rot.

In Hell, I saw humans for what they truly are: small gods of clay, shaped by their own hands, worshiping their own creations as if they were eternal. They do not love. They do not think. They merely consume. It does not matter if it is food, power, love, or meaning—they devour everything they touch. And in the end, they devour each other, leaving only scraps so the cycle can begin again.

And you, so pretentious, believe you can dismantle them, analyze them, classify them. You see yourself as an observer, a scientist, a librarian cataloging chaos. But the truth is, you are just as small as they are. You never wanted answers. You only wanted excuses. You wanted the world to justify what you feel, as if the pain you carry had some greater purpose. It does not. Pain is not a question, and the world is not an answer.

You do not love the world, yet you still bow to its logic. You seek order where there are only ruins. You seek meaning where there are only echoes. And above all, you seek to be something more than what you are: a void on legs. But let me spare you the effort. You are nothing more than this, and you never will be.

The void is the only companion you will have. It demands nothing, promises nothing, lies about nothing. It simply exists—silent, absolute, infinite. And in the end, you will be it, and it will be you. Because the void does not need you to exist, but you will always need it to define yourself.

I do not write to warn you, because warnings are for those who believe in the future. I do not write to console you, because comfort is for the weak who fear the abyss. I write because you need to understand one thing: you have nowhere to run. And the more you try to escape, the closer you will be to me.

You think you are the void, yet you still fear it. You think you understand it, yet you still avoid it. You think you embrace it, yet you still dream of something beyond it. I, however, am different. I looked into the abyss and saw nothing. And unlike you, I liked what I saw.

Because the void does not promise. It does not deceive. It does not contradict itself. It simply is. And in the end, you will be too. Not by choice, but because you always were. You were always nothing. And nothing is all that will remain.

You never screamed. Never begged. Never let a single sound escape to betray what is eating you from the inside. You learned early that no one listens, no one cares. So you suffocated everything. Swallowed despair like swallowing glass, feeling each shard tear through you, but never giving anyone the pleasure of seeing you bleed.

You did not choose solitude—you were thrown into it. Pushed into a cold and forgotten corner, where voices grew distant, and gazes passed through you as if you were not there. There were never arms to hold you when everything collapsed, never fingers interlocked with yours to keep you from sinking. You always wanted to know what it felt like to be loved, but love was always an unreachable ghost, a fleeting shadow that vanished the moment you tried to touch it.

And I know that words do not save. I know that pretty phrases do not stitch holes in flesh. But if there is one thing I can tell you, it is this: when life crushes you until you no longer know who you are, when the void devours everything inside you—smile. Not because the pain will go away. Not because there is hope. But because smiling, even when everything roars for you to give up, is a punch in the face of the world that tried to erase you.

You always wanted to be loved. Always wanted to be chosen. But the world never looked at you that way. Love never came, never rested on your shoulders as relief, never existed beyond a distant echo. And yet, you never begged. Never tried to rip from the world something that should have been freely given. You accepted the absence, accepted the void, let it carve a space inside you.

But what no one knows, what you hide even from yourself, is how much you lie. Not to others—to yourself. A person who lies to themselves, not out of cowardice, but to avoid the weight of lying to others. Someone who chooses to deceive their own soul to spare the world from falsehood. To avoid feeling the crushing weight of truth. To not bear the pain of admitting what they already know. You tell yourself you are fine, that loneliness does not destroy you, that you need no one. You build walls, fortresses, castles of lies just to keep from collapsing into the silence.

And despite everything, you are still a good person. No matter what you think. No matter what the mirror reflects back. Because goodness is not in what you feel inside, but in what you choose not to unleash upon the world.

With the weight of what you are not yet ready to accept,

You.