An overwhelming feeling of numbness, one that feels like it's slowly but surely chipping away at the very being of your soul.
A brain that stopped doing its job a while ago, now he can barely remember what happened merely hours ago.
A hollowness, one that feels heavy on your chest and if you stop paying attention, it might fight back. Making you feel as though you can hardly breathe.
Sometimes the thought passes by,
Of course, he doesn't dig deeper. Merely a thought in passing.
But this thought clings to him like whiteflies to a leaf.
Why won't the whiteflies go away?
Going about his daily life he stands in crowds feeling like he has no place. The feeling only gets heavier. He has no release for his anger, the sadness, the fear. It all builds up until… he feels nothing. Like all that he once stood for just disappeared. He lost his woes and his meaning. Just like he lost his mind.
Waiting at the subway he stands closest to the tracks. Humouring the idea, he tests the possibilities. Staring at the workers, the middle class and the high end mingle together, it's obvious as to who belongs where.
But at the end of the day, everyone wishes they could melt away.
He throws his thoughts to the side, they are lonely in numbers, seemingly so easy to brush aside and forget by the day's end.
Yet he settles with the weary ache in his marrow. Passing each day as not content yet not wanting, a vicious cycle. It's exhausting day by day.
Yet he never sought out the end. Simply being congenial to the idea, never putting it through action. But if it ever happened, he wouldn't be opposed.
In time, the burden of the whiteflies grows to be untenable, and the leaf will fall from the stem.
Some days, he steps a little further over the line.
Why won't the whiteflies go away?
Laying in his barren room he stares at the ceiling. It's dark. Cold. But he didn't complain.
His head was empty, all of its sustenance was gone.
Like a blood sniffing shark.
The whirring of the fan was the only thing reminding him he was alive. Barely feeling his own heart beat.
Sometimes he felt as if his heart was going up his throat, other times it was too faint. Yet never in between.
But the latter was most of his days
He feels like a walking corpse. The other person in the house was just as quiet as him. So there was no one to jog himself back to reality.
Why won't the whiteflies go away?
I've tried so hard now, I've tried everything…
Why won't the whiteflies go?
What else do I need to do?
What else do I need to give it?
Why won't the whiteflies go away?
He stands in the kitchen, mindlessly wandering for something to do, a task to hide from his thoughts.
Seeing a pile of dishes he decides to clean them.
.Running the hot water under his hands made them hurt, but he dismissed the feeling quickly. Picking the dishes one by one he cleans them, slowly. Taking his time. Then he picks up a knife.
The whiteflies double in size.
He stares at it, it shines under the light, so prettily does it shine.
How would it feel on his skin?
He drags the tip of his finger over the blade edge, slowly, it cuts him.
Looking at the blood on his finger he wonders again.
What if this was somewhere else? Would it hurt more?
Ultimately he decides to put it up to his neck, pressing lightly, not breaking the skin.
But what if he does? He certainly isn't against the idea. Not one bit.
He presses harder, and the blood drops, not a lot, but it runs down his neck. Now what if he goes further…
A hand grabs his wrist aggressively, he lowers the knife. Looking at the hasty eyes that face his own.
The voice shaked, obviously distraught. His face stayed the same,a deadpan that looked straight past.
"Why are you doing this!"
The voice yelled. It hurt his ears.
The running water was the only noise in the house. The two stared at each other. One with tears welling in their eyes and the other with a blank stare.
Should he be feeling something?
Bright green eyes and blond hair. His father.
Never in his life would he imagine his father crying in front of him. Sober at least.
Something about this fact struck a chord with him. Tears suddenly begin falling yet his face doesn't say the same. He falls to his knees, he feels as if he can breathe again. The hollowness isn't gone but it's lighter. Much lighter.
The man in front of him crouches down as well, as if he were comforting him. Desperately he clings to his father, like a whitefly.
His touch was so wanting yet gentle, he didn't know if he deserved the comfort he wanted.
His father hugs him, gently, as a mother would.
The whiteflies lowered in number.
As the two stayed in silent sobs, they both felt an odd comfort.
Did they deserve to be this close? They couldn't answer. But for now, all they needed was to stay in that moment.
And soon the whiteflies left.
While the leaf was wilting, new life would spring again.
He held onto that fact, it gave him hope.
Quietly, he starts to believe.
