I do not beg for crowns, nor monuments, nor the trembling applause of centuries.
I demand a greater glory: obliteration.
To be remembered is to be enslaved by the living.
Their tongues deform you,
their memories fester into myths that drag your name like a corpse.
That is not survival—it is desecration.
I want release.
I want the silence so absolute it devours even silence.
I want the night to shut upon me as though I had never broken it.
I want to vanish so completely that even vanishing forgets it ever happened.
Do you feel the shiver of it?
The realisation that one day you too will beg for the mercy of nothingness?
Not because you hate life,
but because existence itself buckles under the weight of endless recollection.
Eternity is not carved in memory.
Eternity is the abyss after memory, stainless and unscarred.
When I am forgotten, utterly and without residue,
I will not have died.
I will have become what even death cannot hold:
Infinite.