True Happiness XI
Happiness at this point is relative, true happiness doesn't exist.
A man stands in a room. Spiders crawl all over his body, or so he thinks. He turns on the TV and Game of Thrones is on. He laughs at the silly dragons. The spiders are gone fro now and he can sit. He doesn't blink, his face is blank.Â
He thinks about dragons instead of the bottomless empty pit inside his heart that he feels every time he sees someone he thinks he loves, maybe its just melodrama or maybe he hast held someones hand since he went to an amusement park with his mother years ago.
His hands are void. His eyes are void. He is spilling out black goo, its running out his mouth ruining the carpet. It trickles down the side of his face from his ears. The room fills with black thick goo until he cant breathe.
He changes the channel. He feels nothing. He changes the channel. He feels nothing. All the life inside him has been sucked out his butthole through a straw.
His phone dings.
He looks down and smiles.
The black goo runs outside.
He feels a tinge of joy that someone cared enough about him to say hello.
That’s all he needs
Validation that he is alive from something as small as a wave.
He is alive. He is real.
He stands up as the spiders crawl up his legs and arms and into his eyes.
He doesn't make a sound.Â
He holds his own hand in the darkness.
He feels nothing.
There is so much nothing. Filling him up until all he can do is stand and let the spiders do their work.
Humans feasted on his something, now the spiders feast on his nothing.
