Ghost of a Wound
A state between numb and obedient, where limbs still move, where breath still sighs— but your will ghosts you. A place between giving up and showing up— here you hear, here you fear, your will drifting beyond reach. Not exactly sedation, not exactly surrender, either— just a gentle tilt of your inner axis. No fight, no fever, you don’t get a breather— the ghost of your will moving right through you, mourning into ether. This wound that never scars— was never real.
©Samia Oldman
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CONTEXT
You are reading dystopian fantasy poetry collection the Hush Halo. After the Great Optimization a privileged group of people wired themselves tightly into the system by aligning with it and fully integrating. Systoics believe they’ve perfected themselves by stripping away everything that slows them down.
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