The room was dark. The darkness is all encompassing and surrounded him completely. His hope was fleeting. For that fleeting moment he had something within himself that he hadn't had in quite some time,and for him it wasn't exactly a surprise to say that it was saying something so much as, `Oh no, not again.'
Hope was something that he wasn't completely unfamiliar with, because it had become a burden and a curse. The burden was that he delved into that hope so completely and utterly that it became somewhat of an obsession. His obsessions literally always led towards despair. His despair was that he could change the outcome of what ultimately drove him here.
Here. He laughed at the thought of here because it brought madness.A madness that completely enshrouded him into a false sense ofsecurity.Was he ever secure? Was there an escape from the inevitable that had become his destiny? A destiny that had been forced upon him at such an early age. Fifteen months old is such a young age to be forced apart from whatis real and true.
What is love? Nobody's perfect, and he knew this all too well. He was far from a saint. Seen such things that would make a saint sin for the sake of simply getting away from these visions. Visions of grandeur. Visions of success and of hope, but not to be for him today. You see, he rationalized, every day is Thursday, which isn't ever pleasant.
Nothing is right because nothing can ever be right in the eyes of others. I'm here. I'm not where I am supposed to be and when I get there I'm here again, but when it was there I wasn't where I was supposed to be and the punishment came whether I warranted it or not.
Darkness. Did I mention the darkness, and the random flashes of light that brought fleeting figments of something that was imagined to be hope? There isn't much hope only to and fro.I find myself rocking gingerly and systematically into a pattern, hoping that it changes. Hope is fleeting too, in the fragments of myshattered psyche.
Coldness. So complete and without worry that it would always be there. I look to my only window which brings light and darkness, however I'm off. The light is fleeting as my cycle has been ruptured and I'm forever in night time. Looking at the cycle of the moons.Who am I? Do I even know? Do I know my name? What is a name? Does it label me out of this surreal? The surreal is so much a better word than the night mare which holds me prisoner.I rock to and fro, hoping for this nothingness to claim me, but it doesn't listen.
I had a life but it's abandoned me, like everything else. I had ahope but in this dark and empty room, even it has abandoned me.There is nothing out there that will save me. There is nothing outthere that resembles my thoughts of a word I heard once, when I heard something beside myself breathing, or moaning, crying or retching.
There is nothing more than my complete and utter anguish.He lashed out in better rebellion against nothing but the cold stoneroom and found nothing there but never changing stone.Visions of curly brown locks and honey brown eyes enclosing him intoa hug, something utterly foreign.
Friendship, unknown to him a world that was drilled in school that didn't make it into the real world as it was fleeting as pealing wallpaper that was long left neglected. Checkmate, mate, left alone and wandering along dark dank halls that offered no advice as to how to proceed.
Red. Blantant flaming red locks that promised family only to break that promise in the next breath and profess hatred that was so convincing… Peace in oblivion. Looking for help in finding that the cycle had started again. Pain to see that it is just real. There is no escape. There is nopardon from this.
This is it. There is no really REAL worldbecause it's here, and it is now.
Breath.
Take a step away and hope that it comes together.You've been here before. You've hoped this before. Before all ofthis, there was something more.
You're doing it again.
Attempting to conceal the enevitable true that there is somethingoutside of a seamable purgatory. Attempting to grab a hold of something floating in the murkiness.Attempting to hold at bay the circular reasoning that is completelypresent.
Evident. Crucial in the constant enfolding hopelessness.
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