no room: a story by me
no room: a story by me stories

moodypessimestCommunity member
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
Boundless in identity yet somehow created by man, not God: Emptiness....

By: Me

no room: a story by me

by Me

“I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians.”

-Mahatma Gandhi

… room….

By me

Silence. Significant like a powerful wind that blows sand. Bright like a star against a backdrop of the night sky. Unique like a luxurious clothing. That’s what was emitted of the man’s mouth.

Not the sort of silence caused by cruel suppression, non-bargained for awkwardness, or lack of brilliance. It was instead a nothingness portrayed by someone with no room for anything. No room.

No room. No room. The other students he attended school with thought he was a mute, slow in the brain even.

Truth was, his mind had sparks of thought rebounding off each other like the particles of an evaporating liquid.

He couldn’t fit speech through the gateway of his mind , even if the edges of it were buttered. Thus there was no room. No room. No room. No room.

The other students ridiculed him for his irregularity. Some of them detested him. Why, you may ask? Because they could.

They had been loved since their birth, given the world, hope itself placed in their privileged palms. There was nothing but hate left inside the ether that composed their soul.

It was an infection, sure, but one unconsciously self inflicted. Their world was a sun and they couldn’t connect with someone whose world was darker than a shadow in the night.

Therefore, the insults came through every outlet imaginable. Written in the bathroom was a raunchy claim. Whispered behind lockers were sincere wishes for his downfall.

Spread were ill-ridden intentions whose sole purpose was to hurt. Every time the young man saw them he could only muse: How is it they have no room in their heart for compassion? No Room.

No Room. No Room. How bad he thought, for he was full of empathy, it was for something to exist only as malicious.

And so, one of those sparks of thought he had evolved into and idea which aged gradually into a plan. A strategy whose goal was to cure them of a cycle where pain begets pain.

His scheme was to write something and pour all his warmth into it. Something that would convince them that there was no room for the loathing they expressed through scorn. NO Room. NO Room.

NO Room. And so he did. The friendliness flooded out of it, the brilliance spilled from the seamless edges of the pages.

He consented willingness to adjust his sharp vision to the future, refusing to remember what was extraordinarily unworthy of forgiveness.

Everything he was and everything he had was offered, all to receive something that should’ve been given freely. It was with a dream that he passed it on to his antagonizers.

He stared expectantly and patiently. He waited for their sudden realization, for their eyes to fill with tears of an apology, for them to realize why there was no room. NO RooM. NO RooM.

NO RooM. It wasn’t necessarily his heart that fell when the boy holding the paper crumpled it, laughing almost indignantly.

He lost a lot more than just that because people are a lot more than just the some of their parts. What broke that day was his individuality, his essence.

The personality of him, something more eternal than time, and what could only be described as one’s soul.

In its stead was a mass of figments of what was once something wholesomely good in every intent.

Just like a broken mirror, the broken glass parts were useless without each other, glue and tape wouldn’t put it back together. The next few days could only be described as...time.

The sparks that used to rebound off one another in his mind now urged him, “NO ROoM. NO ROoM. NO ROoM.” Drops of water he procreated cascaded downwards in his moments alone.

Void was his optimism with the only remnant of him being an unholy doubt: Progress in humanity would forever be hindered by the same linear time that he was experiencing.

That the bodies consuming the Earth led cyclical lives, making the same mistake as their ancestors. No distinction was to be made between two civilizations 1000 years apart and 300 miles apart.

There was no finish line, no end, and ultimately, no room. Suddenly he saw that he was no longer at school, but at home.

It was an out-of-body experience, one where he stood back as a spectator and saw what had happened, what was happening, and what was to happen. Thoughts screamed at him, tiring of the cycle.

Tired of their being no room. NO ROOM. NO ROOM. NO ROOM.

They rose in a crescendo making him deaf and ignorant to the cold cylinder that suddenly felt so vivid placed on the side of this boy’s head.

Everything was inescapably loud and the metal bit his hands in sadness. Abruptly, the cold warmed from a discharge and the thoughts became silent. That’s what was emitted from him now, silence.

Insignificant like a forgotten wind that gently caresses the skin. Bleak like a drop of rain on a day of overcast. Dull like gray on a black shirt.

It wasn’t that there was room now, it was that everything vacating the space had disappeared and that there was no need for room now.

Eventually, the story got around with guilt preceding over it like fog. The boy’s fellow students’ heads would be clouded with thoughts of his undoubtedly successful future.

For fate would have had much in store for him. He could’ve bettered the world as a humanitarian, father, and positive influence. His corpse sung a solo of grief at the funeral.

A musical number that wormed itself into the memories of everyone in attendance. They would reminisce over the tune for a short period with whispers of no room. no room. no room. no room.

But the whispers would fade and they would eventually forget it. Such is the unjustifiable human nature.

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