Sometimes, sometimes he wants to do nothing else but indulge the pressing urge that his flaring in the hollow above his breastbone and throw himself onto the floor. He wishes he would be able to give up. Give up. Give up. Man, give up!
He wishes he would become crazy for real - pathologically insane. Don't they hear him? Can't they understand? Does he have to scream? He has been aching to do so, to scream for quite a while. But he is well-mannered and disgustingly polite.
Now he is sitting on the edge of his tidy bed, staring at the floor. And the crevices between the boards look more inviting than the rest of the world.
He doesn't want it anymore, the responsibility for himself. He never asked for it after all. Can somebody else take charge of him? Please? Please!
He wishes he was strong enough to take a knife and slit his wrists. Dilettante enough to survive of course. He doesn't want to die. He isn't insane when it comes down to it. All he wants is others to take over and to lie on his back like a beetle and blink and breath - at a max.
Hello? Hello out there. You can have me, please can somebody come and rescue me? From myself. From the world. I am not very talented in living. I am untterly nonviable.
Why does he have to live anyway? He never asked for it - this life.
Thank you very much but I don't want it. Do you hear me? I DON'T WANT IT!
At least they could have made him suicidal or fearless so he wouldn't be scared of dying and could put an end to this tragedy. Once dead he wouldn't give a shit anyway - so why the fear? But even thinking about it awakens the panic. And panic and world-weariness don't go well together.
He is tired. And the undefinable sorrow is tearing his heart out. It hurts to bad. Physically. Why can't they see it? Why don't they come, pull him onto their laps, stroke his hair, kiss his forehead and tell him that everything is going to be fine, that he doesn't have to worry anymore, that they will take care of him? Please. Please. Can anybody just..? Anybody.
His inner dialogue or rather his monologue of misery fades away unheard in his tiredness and he lets himself fall back onto the matress. God, he wishes he could cry now - give himself to a flood of tears as a cathartic measure. But they won't come out although he knows that they are the ones responsible for the pain.
And so he tries hard - once again. He thinks of the ones he lost, the dead and the living. He tries to convince himself that nobody loves him, that he is alone and miserable. But it won't work. He crossed the crying border a long time ago.
And he is not unloved. He is not alone. Miserable? Maybe. But they don't know it. They love him. They adore him.
He never asked for it. He never wanted it.
He gets up and undressed, folds his clothes meticoulously, brushes his teeth and lies down. Before he turns off the light he swallows a sleeping tablet. One. And still he wishes he wouldn't wake up in the morning to smile and nod his way through yet another day while the invisible pain and sorrow eat him away in secret.
While he is waiting for the drug to kick in he examines the very bottom of his dolorous guts to see if there is anything below the pain. A tiny flash of hope. But all he feels is pain in pain in pain in pain. And before the tears can ooze, the pill sends him to sleep.
"Understanding of our fellow human beings becomes fruitful only when it is sustained by sympathetic feelings in joy and sorrow." ~ Albert Einstein
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