:]
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The weight of the world is too much for one man to carry alone. He would deteriorate under the stress. The oceans would pour out into his eyes, the mud and dirt would crumble and clog his sinuses. The world would rip and tear at the man, it would scratch his arms and claw at his thighs. He would look for solace among others. He would ask for help, help to shoulder a boulder of water and grime that was ruining him. No one would aide the man.
They could try, bargain half of the world half of the time, but alas, they are just human. The helper would fade over time; collapse into a sea of faces blurred by time. Nothing lasts forever. Rarely he gets reprieve from the rock, an hour, maybe. Scarce minutes are spent dozing off. The man doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. His life ran by the ever-growing weight above his head. He is tired. He is so so tired.
Day by day the weight gets worse. More litter in the ocean. More humans walking the streets. But no one notices; maybe no one cares. The soiled oceans blind him and the muddy lands suffocate him. He sees nothing but the extraordinary ruins held high above his head. The ruins of friendships, papers. The ruins hold the blurry faces that time caressed with its cruel hand. It holds written words filled with hope and happiness that have long been abandoned.
Some days it's more of a struggle than others. The weight holds him down in bed. It whispers to him occasionally. It tells him lies he believes to be true. It covers his mouth and stuffs his nose, whispering soft deception into his ears. The lies make him sick.
The only thing worse than the lies are the onlookers. The people who pretend to know what he's going through. The pity hugs, the pity smiles. Nothing lessens the weight. The world doesn't appreciate the looks either. Every fake sentiment is another million people born into the Earth on the man's shoulders.
The man can't explain why he feels this way, not really. Every attempt to express his turmoil ends in stuttered words and choppy explanations. He shouldn't hold this burden alone, he is well aware of this fact. But he cannot bring himself to seek help when he knows how it will end. Fake affirmations and his own failing hands gripping onto, what could be, his last saving grace.
His hands are covered in blood. His nails are caked with dirt and grime. His crimson hands and ochre nails stain his satin clothes and drench his hair. His greasy hair is damp with his own blood and tears. His split ends taunt him and his scruffy beard torments him. Callouses and blisters litter his fingers. His face is gaunt and strained, the result of bearing tons of rock on his body.
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[wc: 486]
