Down the Winding Road

Part One: Oblivion

Part One: Oblivion
Prologue

     Helpless. I feel as if I'm restrained, struggling to fight the weight of the world pulling you down, to get up as someone you care for is attempting to plunge a knife into their chest. All you can do is plead and plead to God for someone, anyone to hear yours cries of help, to stop them. But they aren't coming, and all you have is your words to convince someone to step away from the never-ending pit of darkness. To not swallow the pills of dreamless sleep. Some say oblivion is inevitable and I guess I do agree, but to prolong the inevitable as long as possible is the true struggle everyone faces with. Eventually, people give up. They stop fighting, they give in to the oblivion for reasons only they can lay claim too, but everyone has felt like they should give up at one point or another. Everyone has their breaking point, and I think I was pushed past mine today. Never again. Though I'm only seventeen years old, I have seen tragedies beyond my years, I have been faced with decisions most adults wouldn't have to make in a lifetime. I've always been dealt the bad cards in life, but I'm sick of having to play the game I was born to play. At the rate I'm going, I'm running a race I can never finish. I set too fast of a pace and I'm running out of speed. Pushing forward would be fatal, and going back is impossible, but how am I supposed to forge my own path to the finish line without a guidebook on what I'm supposed to do? Forever alone in my own universe, what can I do to find the release I so desperately need? No one understands my pain. I'm holding a boulder underwater and I'm starting to run out of air. The endless uphill climb I'm facing just seems to be getting to difficult, too harsh, too lonely, but I have too many people rooting me on to just give up. I won't give up. Pain is only fear escaping the body, something temporary to fill the void life creates. And all I can wonder is when I'm gone, who will there be to care enough to carry the flame of my story, to pass the torch on, delaying my inevitable truth? Maybe hiding behind a facade may be the only way to try and continue on without being noticed. Or do I want some to notice? Could they help me, could I escape the improbable for a while, and live free from pain, from fear? Could they care? Okay, so maybe this isn't completely my story, but the story of us all. Who will carry your own branch, your torch on towards the fire of all memories burning as one?