Edge of Oblivion

Idle Time | July 2025

I wrote something I’ve been sitting with for a while — it’s called “Edge of Oblivion.” It’s about those messy, quiet moments when you’re caught between wanting to give up and finding some kind of strength to keep going. The kind of stuff no one really talks about, but we all feel.

If you’ve ever felt like a walking disaster or wrestled with the noise in your head, maybe this will hit home. Or maybe it’ll just be a little glimpse into what that feels like for me.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

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A dimly lit living room
where it’s filled with not tension, but laughter…
I guess that’s what I’m after,
moments before the aster.

I flirt with nihilism, and I’m prone to cynicism.
Could implode at any minute,
so I guess I’m a disaster in the making.
Reclusive in social spaces,
I’d analyse the room before I formulate a statement…

I guess that’s just how my brain works —
Many assumed that I was mute,
Each sentence formed of choice words,
In spite of the few…
My hunches, never wrong —
just wait till the future came into view.

It’s been hard to exist lately…
Deep down I’ve always known
they need me more than they hate me,
Such a twisted scent they gave me.

Yet my days are filled with a quiet strength,
a silent bravery.
Maybe it’s down to all those fights
with those demons, that would always find ways to provoke me.

In the Aethers, they really know me…

Plights I never lost —
this teetering sanity was the cost.
If you’ve seen what I’ve seen,
then you would’ve thrown out the plot.

And found that envy birthed vultures
in the ones you kept the closest —
Opportunists in your wake,
out of sight, not out of state.

How the people with so much love
have all been issued great pain —
I know them all by name.

The weight of the world as they explain,
The tears in their soul,
The jagged cadence in their voice.

Heart broken, yet face the world so poised —
I wonder how they block out the noise
and silence the call of the void.

I picked up the phone a few times,
Stood at the edge of oblivion —
invitation in hand…
The culmination of self-contempt.

Far from pretty,
Far from grand —
Yet to exist, still I am.

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