A Collection Of Short Stories

(I Am) Nothing

There's nothing.
Nothing to see.
Nothing to hear.
Nothing to feel.
Nothing.
Everything is the same. Nothing new comes up; everyone talks to the same people about the same things and are so goddamned happy.
Why?
How?
It doesn't make sense how they can be happy - feel happy. There's nothing to feel at all.
They all know what they're going to do next; are so excited to carry on with their day with such ease and content. The want to move onwards with their lives. They don't go with the flow; they create the flow of which some choose to go with, to be pushed around this way and that hoping when and where they crash and break open... they'll be safe.

And yet those are the ones who've not broken yet, have only started to fracture. The broken ones? They're unheard.
Unseen.
Unfelt.
And they only wish to be heard and seen and felt and to escape this nothingness they've become.

Some might say they could help themselves. Most don't say anything at all for they already know the answer to the question: "What help is there?" They know the only way they can help themselves, the only way they can escape the void of nothing devouring them whole could cause others around them to fracture and break and become nothing themselves. And why make more people suffer what they've been through? Why cause more pain and agony, the likes of which they're trying to escape?
Escape.

Escape sounds delightful. Except the only escape they can find for themselves isn't healthy, aren't safe. And who said their escape still enabled them to exist? They don't want to simply exist but to live.
Sometimes the only way to live is to die.
To not exist.
To not be in constant pain.
To not be nothing.

Death.
Death would be bliss.
In death, they aren't forced to do anything. They aren't forced to hear or be heard. They could truly scream all they wished, to vent out their frustrations and anger and pain with no fear of anyone calling them insane. No fear of anything bad coming their way because there is nothing.
In death, they aren't forced to see anything different or new or anything remotely the same. They aren't subjected to any more pain. They won't see people's hate, their unjust happiness and joy being rubbed in their unfortunate faces. They'll only see nothing.
In death, they won't be forced to feel anything. They won't be forced to be happy because everyone around them is happy. They won't be forced to pretend they care when they just fucking don't or can't! They won't be forced to feel what they 'should' because there would be nothing to feel at all.

Yes, an escape is delightful and death would be bliss.
For in death, they can be as unheard, unseen and unfelt as they are now.
They can fully envelop themselves in the nothingness they are now and not have to pretend they are something.
They can entirely be nothing.
Isn't that what we all want after all?