I wake up from a sleep which I never actually had. Going to the bathroom, I try to be glad. But then I look at the mirror, to find a man staring back.
When was the last time I took care of myself? I've lost the track. That man is 35, when I remember myself at thirties. That man looks wild and uncared, when I was loved and prepared.
What has happened? I don't know of that. But I should be relieved for I am intact.
I walk down the stairs. Today is grey as every one of them were. Nothing was promising of a bright future. As if the world had stopped believing in itself.
I walk into the kitchen. No work, no school, nothing of ordinary.
What difference would it make if the world is healed? The people won't be, for you can't fix a broken heart, nor mind, neither hope.
I walk into the street. Half expecting to find people to greet, but knowing otherwise. Every day is a new blast of pain, somehow even worse than the previous one that came.
I don't know how much of a will I have left. How long to live?
I walk into an alley. Still darker, nothing changed. Feeling the walls, I try to find my way, trying to escape, trying to get away.
Everything is still. No wind, no sound, not a sign of life to feel somewhat alive.
I continue walking. Visiting thoughts, dreams and nightmares.
Thoughts, making a new spark, dreams, proving its existence, nightmares, crashing them down, showing its real face, for it turns out that they were fake.
I carry on walking with not much power left. For I have been doing it every day, right from the start. There is no point, really. But it is better than to starve.
Not to starve for food, I have much of that. But to starve for love, which you won't find just like that.
I crumple to the ground and now toddling fro. Noting to hold on to, no one to comfort. Not a single soul to say that it is okay, even when it is everything but so.
Not a single soul to point out the mistake, even tho it is bitter, I would be glad to take.
I can no longer move, hence lying on the mud. Waiting, waiting for something to happen which will decide the end. Will it be the survival, or I will have to pretend?
Everything is still, and now I am too, with nothing to look up to, with nothing left to do. Empty from inside, just a mass of flesh, everything is destroyed, nothing left is fresh.
Who said that the heaviest burden of all is love, when love is all I crave?
Craved then, craving still, and will crave until. Until I get it and be free of ill.
Nothing as such happened, and nor it will as seems. Nothing is worth to do until one day it beams.
Still lying on the ground, like dead, one would have thought, if someone was present. I hoped for that every day, hoped to find a creature. And then I would have thought about the future.
But before doesn't exist to make now and then. How can one wish for something new when there is nothing left to hold on to?
In the end I feel it, then believe it to be death, then relieve for I am being taken from depth.
But then I feel guilty, aware of my crime. Crime of abusing the life, the purpose I had the whole time.
So, this was... I don't know really! I intended to write a story, but it came out as poetic one? Well, it is up to you to decide...