This death is a slow one, this death is friction.
There is a wall, made of language and logic and reasoning that I cannot penetrate. I cannot tell what the rules are beyond this wall, I cannot tell how it is that what I do is always so improper, so problematic.
I stumble and fall time and time again, thinking that what I am doing is correct. Appropriate. Just. In this, I cannot help thinking that I live alone.
I bloody myself via action and inaction, trying to make it to the other side through sheer will — but stone is stronger than flesh, and every scar is forever.
I hear them, speaking to me through the skin. They whisper secrets and truth in another tongue, and I cannot make myself understand.
All things are a process; on a long enough timescale, the probability of any action will approach certainty.
The process of life will always resolve itself; the process of learning has no guaranteed resolution.
There is no comfort here.
The only things that seem real are half a lifetime away.