Jan 2017
He lost it.
He could feel his sanity draining from his body and coming out through beads of sweat, the anger rising up into his now blood-red face and the infamous smoke shooting out of his ears, the earthquake taking place inside his body causing him to tremble and shake uncontrollably, the white flag that the first tear waved in an attempt to go back to the way things used to be, and the poor excuse for carpet now beneath what used to be his sanctuary but now was as much of any enemy as the world: his body. He could feel the stares of his curious killers glaring down at him with their judgement-filled eyes.
With no sense of time or care in the world, he closed his eyes and slipped away from the world in that moment on the carpet, holding an open and empty stapler and the knife he used to cut out the last bit of pain the world and his enemies had left behind.
He had not just lost it in one immediate mental breakdown over something trivial to society. No. His body and mind had been gradually giving up on him as the days of stress and hatred went by and the nights filled with tears and sorrow counted down until his demise.
It isn’t some immediate thing like a stab that cuts into your heart. It usually never is, but that is all people on the outside see: a sudden, quick, and inconvenient loss.
The pain and severity of the world crashing down around you and ultimately burying you into its eternal embrace, does not strike fast and leave just as quickly. Rather it drags the pain out until there is only a thin thread holding that person together. The littlest things can be what cuts that thread into two dangling and useless pieces of thread in the end. Though they may be seen as trivial, they are the person’s lasts hope that was then crushed right before them.
It never seems to be a clean cut either, but more of a dull and rigid cut that is, like the internal destruction of the world around you, dragged out until its end.
The littlest things, such as no more staples, can be the end of something so precious yet poisoned by the world: a beautiful life.
He could feel his sanity draining from his body and coming out through beads of sweat, the anger rising up into his now blood-red face and the infamous smoke shooting out of his ears, the earthquake taking place inside his body causing him to tremble and shake uncontrollably, the white flag that the first tear waved in an attempt to go back to the way things used to be, and the poor excuse for carpet now beneath what used to be his sanctuary but now was as much of any enemy as the world: his body. He could feel the stares of his curious killers glaring down at him with their judgement-filled eyes.
With no sense of time or care in the world, he closed his eyes and slipped away from the world in that moment on the carpet, holding an open and empty stapler and the knife he used to cut out the last bit of pain the world and his enemies had left behind.
He had not just lost it in one immediate mental breakdown over something trivial to society. No. His body and mind had been gradually giving up on him as the days of stress and hatred went by and the nights filled with tears and sorrow counted down until his demise.
It isn’t some immediate thing like a stab that cuts into your heart. It usually never is, but that is all people on the outside see: a sudden, quick, and inconvenient loss.
The pain and severity of the world crashing down around you and ultimately burying you into its eternal embrace, does not strike fast and leave just as quickly. Rather it drags the pain out until there is only a thin thread holding that person together. The littlest things can be what cuts that thread into two dangling and useless pieces of thread in the end. Though they may be seen as trivial, they are the person’s lasts hope that was then crushed right before them.
It never seems to be a clean cut either, but more of a dull and rigid cut that is, like the internal destruction of the world around you, dragged out until its end.
The littlest things, such as no more staples, can be the end of something so precious yet poisoned by the world: a beautiful life.
