A waste of life sat alone in a chair rocking back and forth. Just rocking. He could not think to do anything else, because nothing else seemed to him that it could make any difference.
He felt betrayed. People he wasn’t sure were really his friends look to be saying one thing and doing another. He felt left out.
He wondered what the point of sticking around such people was, that maybe he should just leave, and cut himself off from everyone and everything.
That would be easier, better for himself and the others, wouldn’t it?
He thought it might be, but then he remembered what it was like when he was isolated, and how he suffered then in silence, with no one to talk to.
It was agony, with the dreamless unconsciousness of sleep being the barest minimum of temporary relief. And misery loves company, they say.
He guessed he would just resign himself to just keep conversing, from the fringes,
never really penetrating that seemingly impossible barrier between him and truly connecting with another human being. All of it just to feel included for a brief moment here and there.
This would be his life, until exhaustion sets in from enduring the resulting volatile mood swings and he could stand no more.
Would anyone who mattered even care then? He didn’t know, and thought better of continuing this line of inquiry.
That way lies only despair and thoughts even he didn’t want to consider at the time, so he just kept rocking in his chair for a bit. That shitty fucking chair.
Then he looked up at the computer screen in front of him and started typing. He sighed.