Small Stories

Lost

In a way things seemed to be bleaker than they have ever been before. When you feel lost in your own thoughts like being stranded in an ocean, swimming in one direction to reach a shore that probably won't appear for another 500 miles while the strong winded currents of the saltwater pushes you further and further away from land. It's almost as if the comfort within the simplest of things around you only exist to infuriate you more. Why can't you enjoy life? How is it that when you smile your tears pool and drip down your rosy red cheeks, that your composure cracks down piece by little piece in such a way, that you can't reassemble yourself again, only now a sobbing mess in your head. Alone.

You used to tell me that I was a powerful warrior; one with a heart of gold, you would say. How untrue those words were. I could never head into battle without the idea of dying the moment my feet hit enemy soil. What a monotonous sound those thoughts make ringing in my skull. Why is there no happiness where I go? I'm sent to fight but at what cost? At what reward? For an emotion. A feeling. Just to feel something.

And say I were to find that happiness I so desperately sought. How do I know it exists? How long will it last? Is it a temporary fix to an otherwise mediocre existence, or something meant to span a lifetime? Those moments are so few and far between that my beliefs lie in merely not trying. Laying my sword to the ground and standing at the threshold of the enemy line; they cannot touch me, yet their words, their spittle, their claws and jagged teeth, are within a painfully close distance. Is it wrong to believe that a slice to my throat will solve every problem? Is it wrong to want a do over, to hit reset and see what the next life might have in store? To say goodbye to a friend, a family, inspirations and the inspired, and walk into the only abyss that awaits those who have lost these battles before? How to wonder; how to speak. However will I leave this rut?