Shit. That one word. That single word echoed throughout the hollowed recess of his mind as he looked at the ceiling, as blank as the eyes that analyzed it. Shit - a colloquial slang term for feces often used in times of distress or as an exclamation slash alarm. Why was he using it now, he thought. Well, easy enough to say, it was the definition of what he saw his life as. Of course, he couldn’t complain though. Someone always had it worse. Still. Still, he admitted, his life was a vat of it. Why not complain to random strangers, right?
The girl in his head? The one drilled there, branded into the cortex of his brain, the grooves of burnt matter spelling her name and intermixing with the rest of the sulci? Unreachable. Absolutely untouchable but he can’t complain. She’s happy. Alive. Fuck off, kid, some people would cut off their limbs for a chance of seeing the people they love. No high horse in his mind, no, he simply can’t. All he can do to vent about his frustrations, his minuscule disgust at himself, and the unfortunate events of his life is hide them behind words, and pencil carved shapes of stupid pointless shit.
Alone? Isolated? Do something about it. But he can’t.. he doesn’t want to fit into the niche of the world. He doesn’t want to drown his sorrows in alcohol and label it with the definition of “fun.” Experimentation is a bane of his thinking, a blockage of his mind and he doesn’t want it. He can’t fit in. He knows it. The sad part is he doesn’t want to be by himself, he relishes isolation.. and at the same damn time he likes being caged away from the stupid annoyances of a society where a norm is embracing illiteracy. Fuck that shit.
Life goes how he understands it. He understands it too much. An overused cliche, that’s what life is - a “roller coaster ride.” Balance. That’s how it works. You feel like shit, you get back up, you feel like it again. Predictability. He hates it with a passion as furious as the concentration of doing nothing, of staring at a ceiling for hours at a time and thinking about how the hell his life would be predictable if, somehow, with some ounce of possibility, he was completely different. Or, hell, at least useful. He hates the fact that he knows that it’ll all be better.. he hates knowing that every thing is going to be alright. Tragedy. That’s what’s needed. Absolute tragedy pooled with mind crushing pain so deep that it shatters throughout the bloodstream, blinding the world with a sea of red. Tragedy so he can finally have an excuse to complain, to bitch about the world and have a good reason for doing so. He knows it won’t happen though. He finds it ironic that no matter what he wants, no matter how simple, he can’t get. He understands that it’s a part of life. He smiles in the silence, staring deeply into the white void of ceiling - one phrase at an echo. Shit happens.
Life in itself is a pointless affair from beginning to end.. it’s up to you to make some worth out of living it.