I have a story, a completely true, not at all made up story about a human. It goes like this.
This human is struggling. And has struggled for as long as they remember. And they hurt. But where does the hurt originate they constantly wonder?
Is it from the weight of the world that rests so heavily on their shoulders? Everytime they feel the weight gets lighter, no, it was just a dream, the weight is now ten times heavier and they are an inch closer to the floor.
Is it from the hooks in their skin? Always trying to pull out the truth but as they are a liar the hooks never budge, always pulling, pulling.
Is it from the melancholic melodies funneled into their ears, never ceasing? They ring of truth but of great agony, the crooning makes their ears drip blood.
Is it the half-forgotten memories, always in the back of their mind? They aren't sure whether they are fiction or truth, pray they are the former. The memories whisper of darkness and destruction, always. The prayers fall on deaf ears.
Is it the crushing loneliness and longing, felt with such intensity it makes them crave nothingness? Wanting to be known but staying within the shadows, refusing to let their twisted form be seen.
They aren't sure what hurts worse. Hope the hurt ceases soon. But they learned hope causes nothing but falling. Falling for what? Falling where? They aren't sure, but the fall sends wind whipping through them every time.
This story is well rehearsed, crafted with half-truths and grand wishes.
Do you believe it is fiction? Or truth?
Pray it is the former, young one, pray. May your muttering be heard clearly, so that you may rest with a clear conscious.
Because the truth is that this story is damning and it will haunt the rest of your days once heard.
