They called him mad.
Is it true? She asked, wondering whether the reports in my hands are real? You don't know how one would react when they hear the sad truth about your life. Is this life? Is this what we think it is? Or is it just an illusion that you bury yourself into knowing that it's so deep that you won't ever reach the surface.
One would think that time somehow manages itself, and you keep floating in this vast ocean of life. But the truth is far vaguer and unknown to anyone. You eat your meals and go hungry again, you sleep, and you wake up still to go back to sleep. You walk and run, get tired and rest. The cycle goes on, and on. There is no denying, and there is no way out. Time eats you alive while you repeat the same things over and over. The more you do, the more you get sucked into this deep, never-ending hole of nothing.
Is it true? She asked it again. I wonder why I always drift away in these thoughts of nothingness. But this time her voice echoed in my ears a little louder. Yes, it's true, I said. And there is no cure. The world will call me mad, but I am what I am. A fragment of imagination went into another direction. I know nothing and then also I knock on the doors of the unknown. Is this true? What is truth anyway? If many people believe in something, does it become a collective truth? Or if it's printed on a piece of paper by someone who studied this for ten years, and then experienced the symptoms in ten patients. Is he the truth? Or I am? I, Nicholas Strange Blemon. Nothing is what it seems. You already believed in everything I say, but now you'll have your doubts. Is it me who's been lied or was it you the whole time.
"Nick, I am so sorry. I don't know what to do." Said Natasha. I saw the deep ocean in her eyes. Maybe this is life, you live, and you drown in it.
