This

I hate this. This feeling. This enigma, eating; consuming me.
I need this. This burn. This ache in my side.
I want this. This emotion. This longing, the desire to continue onward.
I can't stand this. This life. This simple, complex existence; this being.
I must have this. This stabbing. This irate situation; breaking me down.

This confusing story. Of life, of death. Of love, of hate. Of us, of them.

I don't care about this. This nothing. This thing of absolute emptiness.
This devil. This demon – Tempting me to continue onward.
This sadness. This anger – burning me, killing me. Begging me to try.
I forget about this. This ageless fight. This battle with time.
I care for this. This is pain. This sorrow, this nightmare that never ends.

What is this?
For better or worse, this is our condition, our reality, our existence.
This feeling? I hate it? No. I love it, I live for it; live with it. I wouldn't have it any other way.
It is in us all, just as we are all within it.