Who needs the complexity of self when you can be a function, a cog, a reliable machine? Let work strip away the parts of you that hurt, those parts that doubt, those that want. Let it hollow you out until there’s nothing left but a blank slate, a person reduced to pure output. No more identity, no more illusory, reassuring soul. Just the mechanical drive to complete, until you can’t even remember what it felt like to be someone.

The more you pour yourself into it, the further you distance yourself from that void within, the harder it becomes to define yourself in an absurd world. Because why be someone, with a name, an identity, when there’s so little left inside? You become hyper-aware of your emotions, not to feel them, but to make sure they don’t shatter the fragile numbness you’ve so carefully built around yourself. You’ve bled too much of yourself into the grind, into the nothingness, to ever feel whole again.

And then, one last thought forever lingers: would anyone in the world understand these complexities, the unsettling desire to be no one, the urge to erase any identity woven into your name? Would anyone get this absolutely ridiculous need? Will there ever be a language that can bear the weight of this crushing heaviness, turning it into words, comprehensible words? Because once again, the desire for acceptance dominates these words. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can unlace your heart from the world built around you, no matter how desperately you wish.