Maybe nobody was happy amidst the trails of angst in this world, but he was.
He indeed was.
But is it worth, showing all your sympathy to that young lad, living across Dover Lane, all alone, worth it, after he's gone? No.
Did you ever know who he was? No.
Did anyone ever ask him how his day had been? No.
Did anyone notice the pain in his eyes, behind his laughter? No.
He was a rose, whose thorns lay behind the beauty of the flower. He stained himself the colour of blood, and yet managed to fool you with his genuine looking smile, every time the new day's sun rose.
He lived alone.
All by himself in that little old apartment beside the old coffee chambers.
He used to look out of his window, towards us, with the hope of someone approaching him someday, when he wept his tears of agony, all by himself.
I knew him, although we weren't close.
He used to gulp down his tears, full of pain, watching his parents raise another child.
He used to cut himself, watching his lover with someone else, across the lawns. Kissing.
He used to starve, although he had enough to feed himself, and two more. But nobody knew.
He used to sit by the lake sometimes, watching the mother swan feed her babies, or sometimes, watching lovers together, by the moonlight.
The old beggar and his child, outside the coffee chambers are alive today, because of that young lad from Dover Lane. Even if he had to starve himself, he'd never let the beggar and his child go hungry.
All the dogs in Dover Lane used to run to him, because despite all the sorrow, he was a storehouse of love, never failing anyone who he saw.
He used to love music, and if you walked across his apartment, you could sometimes hear a medley being played on the piano, or old classics being played on the guitar.
They're probably already being devoured by insects, or maybe have already been sold by people who didn't even know him.
I had seen him die, on Monday night. We spoke, before he died. It was last midnight, and I had been fighting my demons, on the road. He had seen that, and he had come up to me. He talked to me, and he made me feel better. It was him, because of whom, I still thrive.
When I turned to say goodbye, he was already on the railing of his second floor balcony, arms out, as if embracing and absorbing all the pain that was spread across the world. He smiled at me.
He jumped.
All the nineteen years he lived, he had taken in too much pain, but had always given out happiness instead. Maybe we were so blinded by his laughs, that we never understood the scars, and the agony that they hid.
So, if you ever walk across his house, do look at his apartment, which shall be pulled down next month, and do smile, remembering the good deeds he had committed, and the number of lives he had saved.
Maybe that shall let his now gone soul, rest in peace, because we failed him when he lived. And I hope we don't fail him in death.
The hands which fed a hundred souls, lied alone here in the night, cold.
He had dreams.
But his letters were for no one.
