I closed my eyes, hoping that they would cease to open ever again, what was I to do at this point other than await a gloomy demise to my anticipating casket?
There I lay, on that bed of weepy sorrows and overflown aches, the birds chirp outside as they awake from their slumber, what is it that keeps them motivated? There is such a sadness to the morning, it seems to bring nothing but a gloomy glow over each and every inch of being that retains itself within that room, the room that held all the secrets of my misery, secrets that would never be heard by anyone, not until it became too late.
I wondered, perhaps too late, if there was a true purpose to my being there, in that room, with the trees aching in their eternal existence. It seemed rather ridiculous to me, maybe even cruel, that one is placed her without a morsel of knowledge on what their purpose may be, on what the meaning of their existence truly is. It does create the question, does anyone truly know? There was something about the air that morning, it flowed in on a bed of regret and pain as though to warn me of the upcoming disaster that would face me, one that I had become accustomed to, but had not yet accepted as tantamount to truth, what was the need for me to pay attention to an air so trivial and banal? It’s one that flowed over us day after day in this place, a place closed off from the rest of humanity, a place that sucks the soul of one person and hands it, heart to hand, to another. This cruelty was nothing a human was subjected to at birth, but then, what is our purpose? Perhaps, after all, this is the only reason I have truly been put here, for this purpose and this purpose alone, to be used and manipulated. But, isn’t there more to it? As a child you are fed all of these intricacies of life and how it could turn out; you become so fixated on those intricacies, those impossibilities, that they seem as though that, in your head, they could become a reality so strong that no one would dare apprehend you. But, it just doesn’t end that way, you become worn and forlorn, webbed with the deceit and lies that are fed to you, as you attempt to escape your entrapment. As I sat there I wondered to myself, as I had done so many times before, if I were to ask a wandering soul, ‘What is the propose of your existence?’ they would ultimately be toppled onto their heads, for the plain and simple fact being that, for most of their lives they had appeased themselves with an idea that their life had meaning, this came from their own self love, yet when faced with the question, an awful terror would flood them and they’d realise, the answer does not exist.
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