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"We suffer more often in imagination than in reality."
- Seneca
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I would laugh about their pettiness, joke about their grieve; in the end it was me who stood on the lowest of steps. Nothing mattered to eyes that had abandoned all sense of beauty. A mind that was certain to know the world's secrets by contemplating what he couldn't understand was doomed to fall victim to its own foolishness. In the end, only I was responsible for those lonely night's cold embraces that I chose over anything else this scarring world had to offer. And yet I wouldn't talk about a downfall. The way up is the way down; at last I felt freed by the shackles I had been laid in the moment I was born. We make up our own sufferings and focus on those binding illusions more often than we seek truth in reality; Seneca knew, and in the end, I knew too. It was almost a pity that by then, it was already too late.
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YOU ARE READING
The Infinite Nothing
Short StoryTristan talked about Socrates and Plato and about purpose and life after death. Ivan had a hard time remembering his own middle name. When Tristan and Ivan meet at a funeral, Tristan doesn't have to think about the needles in his room for some time...
