There goes the boy again,averting his eyes with persistent denial,unsure if I'm fighting the same silent war inside as him.
He claimed that there was nothing more catastrophic than him,
the boy with the supposed void behind his eyes,
He was everything and nothing, the chaos,all of the colors all at once and then he was the deafening silence and the darkness you'd get lost in,
he was the coming disaster and then he was the calm.
He never ran out of metaphors for himself,never missed a chance to define himself as something that would wreak havoc among us.
The boy who drowned himself in ink and tears, who searched and searched for an answer in between pages that gave him nothing but empty promises of a better life,a better world.
Most of the time,his fictions only made him more restless,they fed the unspeakable in him with bitter truths.
The boy who felt crushed under the weight of existing.
The boy who had never thought that maybe he was just a boy,struggling to be a man and that he is flawed,scarred and only human.
This is for him,this is for the boy who isn't,wasn't and will never be a disaster or a monster.
He is just a boy,just a boy.
And when he grows,he'll be a man,just a man.
If I never come around to tell him,please tell the boy that he was just a boy,he is just a boy and he will just be a man and nothing more or less than that.
(Except maybe,immortalized through my mediocre writing.)
-W.L.A.C.