For a moment he was suspended in time, stagnant amongst the wave of unending moments, sitting over the balcony of the place he hated the most. Oh how he distasted this place, the very air of it stunk of bad childhood memories and a life fractured by unending rules that had more to do with peoples perspectives than the care that is given to a loved one. He hated the gray walls and the unusually white living room. He hated how blue the hallways were painted and the burgundy mat that covered most of the house. He hated the room that resided across the hall from his and the door that never opened. He hated the kitchen and all the food that was shoved down his throat on awkward family dinners that took place night after night. He hated every second he spent imprisoned there, chained with a ******* that had claws in his mind.
All that he ever craved, all that he ever prayed for from a God he didn’t even believe existed was escape; to rob himself of a house but instead be gifted with something he could call a home. This was why the balcony was the only place he let time seem invariable. The only spot he would ever want life to stride on a steadier pace because there he had control. He had the world in his palm, a figment, of course, but still palpable, thus never cared to share it with anyone else, certainly not these automatons that made his existence bleak.
He sighed, watching the air burn its way out of him, so alive in a way he never expected it to be. Amongst all things, this amazed him. He frequented the habit; sitting in the cold, almost freezing, then he’d gasp air in a consecutive manner just to let it out in steady streams, foggy from the clash of hot and cold. Like an idiot, he gawked, the steam giving him unadulterated glee. And much like the steam, he wanted to exist as a better byproduct of the two extremes. He wanted the fire in him to burn away the cold that suffocated his every waking moment. In fact, he so desperately wished, the storm in him would be strong enough to clear a pathway between his past, his fractured present and the future he couldn’t even picture.
Yet he wanted to hope even though his mind told him everything was wrong with hoping; for hoping made you picture, perhaps not a lot, but something and of everything his mind could conjure up, he hated it when it was a prospect where he could one day be happy and free and alive past a point of existing and surviving. He hated it because it gave him a sense of peace, one that would undoubtedly be snatched away from him.
He hated a lot of things, his mind realized, for most of his monologues went much like this. However, he also loved a considerable amount but never once spoke of them. He loved in secrete, from a place detached and secluded, where not one soul could make assumptions of his adoration. He cherished and lost in private. He adored and hurt in clandestine for he never wanted to burden others with a love that was too heavy as it immerged from a depth of despair.
