Sweet Oblivion, I call to thee.
There’s a point where exhaustion stops being physical and becomes spiritual. Not the kind of tiredness that sleep can fix, but something deeper. Like a weight behind your eyes, a hum in your ears that blocks out meaning. And in that place, we don’t always call out for healing. Sometimes, we call for silence. For numbness. For Oblivion.
The temptation of oblivion doesn’t lie in its truth—it lies in its convenience. It doesn’t heal your wounds, it just hides them. It doesn’t fix what’s broken, it simply wraps the shards in fog. In the corner of a dark room, or in the quiet click of the last notification silenced, we whisper its name like a desperate prayer.
Sweet Oblivion, come find me.
Take me wherever, I won’t put up a fight.
Because fighting feels like too much. And Oblivion doesn’t ask for effort—it offers escape. Its promises aren’t real, and we know that. But when push comes to shove, sometimes even a lie feels like a lifeline.
We live in a world that demands constant presence. To be alert. Informed. Hyper-aware. But what happens when awareness becomes a curse? When knowing hurts more than ignorance? “Ignorance is bliss,” we mutter with a half-smile, and maybe that’s a confession. A desire to look away and not feel guilty for it.
Oblivion doesn’t come dressed as death. No, it’s more seductive than that. It shows up as false comfort, fake love, pretend joy. It comes with arms wide open, inviting you into a place where nothing hurts because nothing matters. It doesn’t soothe; it sedates.
Take me in your arms, we’ll make fake love.
I’ll accept your fake promises.
Because the real ones have failed. Or are too far away. Or too hard to believe in anymore.
To long for oblivion is not weakness—it’s weariness. When joy becomes a memory, and clarity a burden, numbness seems like relief. That’s the danger. That’s the seduction. The belief that if you can’t feel joy, at least you can feel nothing. And nothing, at times, feels better than pain.
Oblivion becomes more than a concept. It is a character. A lover. A liar. But also, strangely, a savior. Even if just for a moment. Even if it costs us our connection to the world.
You, this belief, might not be the real McCoy,
But if you pull me up, I’ll gladly pay a heavy price for that joy.
We know it’s a sin. Not in the religious sense, but in the sense of giving up. Of letting go too soon. Of trading presence for detachment. But some nights, when the noise inside us becomes unbearable, even sins feel like salvation.
And yet, we still call it “Sweet.”
Because despite the cost, the numbness tastes kind.
Because detachment doesn’t argue. It doesn’t accuse. It simply is.
This is not a glorification of pain or an endorsement of escape. It’s an honest glimpse into what happens when the world becomes too much and we are left alone in our heads. When the weight of being alive outpaces the will to carry it.
So yes, Sweet Oblivion, your name gives me hope.
False or not, it helps me cope.
Because sometimes, silence feels sacred.
And even if it’s a sin…
It’s the pleasure I need.