For the first time in forever, I watch the sun set.
The rays of the sun illuminate the clearness of the sky, quickly painting its blue canvas with a golden orange and yellow. The clouds form themselves into an orange-flavored cotton candy, and the sun winks at me like the yolk of an egg on a pan.
I knew she would think the sky was a beautiful canvas of warm colors.
But for all I know, it looks like hell to me.
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.
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Hell...
It sounds so diabolical yet humble at the same time.
Four words make up the word that every priest despises.
Four words make up the word that makes every choir boy scared.
Four words make up the word that humanity dreads the day they see it.
Four words make up the life I live.
Hell.
H.
E.
L.
L.
Hell.
Have.
Everyone.
Love.
Lucifer.
The word itself describes the very place it is named for.
Everyone in hell loves Satan.
Or at least they're forced to.
I wonder if the lives of the damned are better than mine.
At least they have something to do like push a boulder for eternity or something.
I reach for the sky above.
Even hell can reach heights I, myself, can never reach.
I wonder if Satan can just take me now.
To end this mundane life of mine.
The echo of the faucet rings in my ear.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
.
.
.
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.
.
.
.
.
I get up at the sound and follow it.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.