An hour of frustration

In a room where no light had entered for days, where the air was thick as if carrying rotten secrets, M awoke. The author chose not to mention his real name—perhaps out of fear, or maybe out of contempt. The important thing is that M opened his weary eyes, unaware of the time, uninterested in knowing anything. His miserable face woke up with him, his foul smell too, as if they were an inseparable part of his decaying existence.

For a few fleeting seconds, he remained suspended between sleep and wakefulness, his mind lost in emptiness, devoid of clear thoughts, devoid of any real feeling. Then, as if the world had yanked his soul back with force, he suddenly came to, his eyes fixated on the glowing screen of his phone. His fingers dragged across the screen, opening the Facebook app, beginning his daily ritual of mindless scrolling. Three more hours of his life wasted in nothingness, passing without sensation, without meaning, without the slightest attempt to change his decaying reality.

Why had his life become so miserable? How had his days turned into endless, repetitive loops of the same cold agony? There were no answers—just heavy, depressing thoughts creeping into his mind like mold creeping into his room’s damp walls.

After hours had passed, he finally decided to get out of bed. But deciding was one thing; acting on it was another. Getting up felt like pulling himself out of quicksand, one slow, dragging movement at a time. Moving his legs toward the door was like carrying a massive stone to build a pyramid. Everything was exhausting. Everything drained him. He felt like a broken-down car with a punctured fuel tank, moving aimlessly, burning itself out for nothing.

Showering, changing clothes—even the simplest actions like standing or thinking—felt like a battle he lost every day. As for going outside? Buying groceries? These were mythical challenges, insurmountable tasks, which was why he spent days, even months, without stepping outside.

His entire life depended on his mother, the old woman who still provided for him, paid for his food, his bills, even the smallest necessities he should have taken care of himself. He didn’t work, didn’t study, didn’t pursue anything. He simply existed in a state of absolute stagnation, as if time had stopped for him—or as if he had stopped being human long ago.

But who is M, really?

M is not just a person, but a condition, an idea, a manifestation of absolute emptiness that could consume anyone without warning. He is a shadow, a figure moving in the dark, breathing oxygen without adding anything to the world. He is a mind exhausted by life, choosing to withdraw from it in silence—without even dying.