When he saw those eyes, it hurt. Those poisoned eyes that told a thousands stories. He wretched internally at the thought of going back to that purgatorial space. Desperately clinging on some invisible means of support that left no mark but a rage and anger he was previously ignorant of. What was it for, he pondered, the general effort? Days dragging into each other without mercy.
Did it prove he was as foolish as he thought? Or was it something else? A subtle whisper, a callous remark, that spelled doom for his hopeful aftermath of a life.
There was no point pondering, or else that shift in pressure in the chest one feels when combating dark or repressive thoughts would grow to be almost septic.
What was he now? He was certainly not the same man, of cold imagery and dark humour past. He was the Moriarty of his own life. HE was the villain, not his closely-bonded enemy. A bright side blinds. Thus love's absence was powerfully explained.
Yet he went on, silently jeering to all he still didn't understand, but when darkness descends like it always will, and he is alone, with not even some distant fancy, or cosmic secondary for company, he would know pain.
He is the human condition, craving conflict, and lusting after peace, a peace he will never know, and one that will present itself through countless false prophets as he trudges on with his unended existence.