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By Cringe All Rights Reserved ©



Once trapped eyes, enslaved by a false pretence of rest, crawled upon the painfully dry looking ceiling. Pupils clinging onto lids, struggling against waking up to that harmful world of pain and misery. The one thing every non-neurotic person, from philosopher to hipster can agree on; The false pretence of freedom is prime torture and succumbing to it, utmost pathetic. A human life led as sorrowful as that of any lowly creature's cannot escape the poltergeist cast upon it by the light of reality by any mere night's rest. Only when conquered by dreams which mesmerized his mind with thrilling, dazzling illusions. Only then could his life be soothed of its misery. Every ounce of reality was agonizing, pain awaiting in every waking moment. Pried and ripped out of his faithful slumber and awakened to purgatory.
Not a clock in his room, those damn ticks and tocks could only push his hours of rest back and shrink the time he got to spend in fantasia. He slumped off the bed, not even a shred of joy sprung in the form of a random, energetic twitch in a muscle. His posture was non-existent. Living was a sin the way he saw it, and his lifestyle would be the perfect example of that. He did not carry an ounce of life, neither his movement nor his expression. A truly pathetic demeanour. Incapable of expressing even sorrow. A wandering cloud of depression so thick, it was toxic to anything hopeful he might approach. 'Oh, the joy.' who knew that an act as simple as living could breed such hate and cynicism into a human? Maybe god. A simple thought exercise. What if your rescue was offered by the very enemy whom caused your demise. Isn't that a shaking realisation? Why would a god create such a horrific life? One that starts out so bright only to fade away into the clutches of misery. Born accursed with darkness looming till it could get no closer. Darkness which started climbing up his throat.
When your lungs fill up with water faster than you can relieve yourself of it, you begin to drown. You gag and choke on every attempt, struggling as the depths and darkness surrounding you conquered your breath. You'll clutch your throat, part of you trying to force out the water and the other, trying to rip out that little bit of life left in you to end that struggle faster. At least, this won't last more than a few moments. Death will acquire you within a matter of minutes. Crude darkness, however. Consumes you over decades, tortures not just your lungs but the essence of your existence itself. It's thick and it's stubborn but more than anything, it's inevitable.
There was no such luxury in living, you don't get to just die. Misery which formed a black hole about his being in the form of apathy. Apathy which dragged the man down to the kitchen. Wrapping his left arm around the wall which was at the corner to his kitchen. He leaned his head against the very same wall, his eye lids still struggling to climb open. Straining his eyes, he looked straight ahead. Right through every moving and stale object, right to his kitchen window. Which showed him yet another apartment building. Taunting him, reminding him of the pathetic life that drowned his existence. He stumbled, as he took his first step, knees as weak as his heart. Paused with a heaving breath after catching himself. Proceeding on with the struggle of living as he took step after painful step approaching the window at the end. He stopped and propped himself up with his arms against the windowsill.
Misery. What was surrounding his being, engulfed all of the city and beyond. The view out the window was an introspective. He saw nothing more than what lied within, he had become a reflection of the world around him. Misery, expressed in biblical dimensions. Dozens upon dozens of concrete structures. The same grey that allowed society to function on its moral code of conduct. Diversity is only skin deep. Beneath, it's all just a shade of grey. Bred, grown or forced that way. Consequently so. For any semblance of colour, any identity of an ideal gets smeared a blood-curdling red and is lost six feet under as soon as its hue starts animating the world. Making the complex, meaningless. The simple, miserable. The miserable, common. All to make the common, happy. Buildings which were made to represent conformity, routine and division, under the false pretence of stability, growth and equality. As he stared right ahead into the collage of collapsed dreams and ensnared freedom in the form of the same black hole which ate away at his being, and his innards squelched as the self-loathing oozed through his joints. He welcomed a singular and terminal realisation. Misery knew no discrimination. Just a man-made force of nature that held no regard but for one, if there was still a breath of hope left to corrupt.
As he stared into this burgeoning oblivion, whose shallow consisted of only hopeful hopelessness, he could feel himself get pulled down a cradle of filth. Allowing that absolving defeat to drown him slowly within his own misery. Lungs filled with poison and started rotting, his guts squelched under the intense pressure of his tightening stomach. His skull cracking while his breath stank of a dead man. Each breath brought along with it agony. Every second his eyes were open wrung his brain dry. "Misery! Misery! Misery!" He yelped as his blood thinned out, letting the poison into every vein. Eye lids ripped open and tears gushed through. His yells loud and screeching. Bloodshot eyes ultimately caught a glimpse of life. What had been oblivion now gained meaning. That which was capable of forging that melodramatic stare into a heartbreaking glare. That being of misery fought back through the gravity which held him down. Flood gates burst open to escape every clotted bleed of misery and turn his body into a fountain of exasperation. In that release of hormones, adrenaline and endorphins.. He lived as he was dying. And in that living moment, he leapt out his window..
To truly live, to fly. Within those brief seconds, he sincerely flew. Seconds which to that mortal soul, will mean eternity when compared to whatever had been before. The erratic whipping of anarchist, revolting wings. Struggling against the ecstatic embrace of violent, aggressive winds. The blanket of silence cast over him warded away any rescuing whisper of good intent. Smothering out even his own voice, leaving him with nothing but a forsaken gasp. The same burst of emotions that pushed him out the window in search of a swift and blissful release, now mocked him upon this loss. Thrusting him into an angsty brawl against the misery that enlightened him of the impending demise. In that struggle, he choked on agony. Beginning to smell afoul of the fear that coursed through his system. Consumed by mortality, his conscious mind relieved itself into a suspended state of lonely infancy. In that moment of finality, which had a brief expiration for the physical world, was born his eternal damnation in the clutches of misery.
If you have wings, flight becomes a meaningless chore.
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