He drifts through life, an elusive specter of emotional detachment. His friends, mere stand-ins for the void that lingers within, serve as placeholders in a desolate existence. In his solitary moments, he’s tempted to serenade himself while tending to nonexistent plants, a poetic yearning for a connection with nature that remains unfulfilled.
He dances with actions he later laments, a discord of choices and regrets, tangled like a web in his tormented psyche. Regret becomes his constant companion, an enigmatic shadow cast by deeds both committed and omitted. A heart, once gilded with hope, now mired in decay, bears the scars of unspoken sorrows.
He gazes upon pretty faces, seeking solace or salvation, finding amusement in the theatrics of humanity’s grand masquerade, all performed in stealth. His cry for help is cloaked in the guise of self-sufficiency, a silent plea that he masks effortlessly.
“I don’t,” he declares, rejecting the notion of need. What he truly craves is a fragment of hope, the bedrock on which to establish sound footing in a world that constantly threatens to pull him under.
Today, the simple act of toothbrushing eludes him. Instead, he commits to memory the braille-like patterns etched into his plaque, indifferent to their fate in his daily routine.
His friends smile, blissfully unaware of the tempest that rages within him. The warmth of sunshine is an opportunity to bask in the fleeting embrace of sun rays, to stretch his weary back and fingers toward the heavens. Yet, he questions, “Why?” A sigh of disillusionment escapes his lips, refusing to engage in a debate of differing opinions, for what’s the point when nothing matters?
He remains an island of indifference in a sea of fervent causes. “I don’t care,” he mutters, disengaged from the million battles people wage, for his war unfolds silently within the confines of his own mind. It’s a minuscule arena where the weight of millennia rests heavily on his shoulders, suffocating him to the point where even drawing breath feels like an arduous task.
He makes sounds, inhuman noises reminiscent of a mournful puppy, disoriented by the cacophony of fragmented voices that have led him to this desolate place. His eyes well up with tears, and his throat aches from the unspoken sorrows that weigh him down, like an anchor to the depths of despair.
Fatigue and discontent are his constant companions. The imprint of his body on his bed has become a work of art, a testament to his inertia and solitude. He abstains from the numbing embrace of alcohol and drugs, not out of virtue, but out of sheer boredom. He’s too uninspired to become a worse version of the self he barely recognizes.