The moment I take the pill, I have about one hour to live painlessly. I can imagine fulfilling all my fantasies in that short time. Riding a bicycle, reading an abandoned book or chatting with the most intimate beings. But rather, I choose to meditate on the wall in front of me, drawing with my eyes endless paintings that reflect my deepest fears. I'd shiver, cry, crumble inside my inner caves and get lost there. It's my only time to lament the life I once had, the comfort of mind and soul that I bragged to own. I now have nothing but my own mental cages, stealing numbers from my short life expectancy. Every single detail has gathered to sear me, a moment of standing outside makes me feel as if my skin is roasted by the sun and soon would be swung by the wind. Every detail reminds me of my weakness and ephemerality.
Written, and sobbed, on a tough day.
There once lived a man with no head. He did not know where to go, neither what was he doing. All the time the villagers would really be surprised how is he still alive? How come a train did not hit him? Or the bus? How does he feel inside?
ردحذفNo one knew, except himself. And one else, which he would talk to, silently, at night. Because if anyone would feel, it would be Him.