2 min readMar 2, 2024
Torsten Dettlaff

It is odd how hope arrives on its own in solo.
Hope has the ability to fill you to the brim with spillover.

But upon its leaving sucks even the marrow from your bones.
In the process, it makes you soulless, broken, and hollow.

The result is that only a shell of your spirit remains.

Such is my journey on this second day of March 2024, with only myself to blame.

Looking inward, I have never been thrilled with what I found. But now, a loathing has begun to simmer.

Even in the light of morning, I can’t help but feel I am doing nothing more than taking up space. In retrospect, there may not be a place for me here.

The soul’s flame is a delicate and beautiful thing we often take for granted. Until the breeze of life threatens to extinguish it.

Sitting here, I think of all the sights and smells I would miss from this place.

Sitting here, I find no escape from myself. I’m having difficulty dealing with this irony.

For the moment, I must paint on a smile so all those around me may enjoy the sunrise.

For the moment, I must simulate engagement.

Knowing as I watch hope depart, I may very well follow.




Patient of life, attempting to heal oneself by Quill. Transitioning from a profession of technology.