The night descended upon him. It was dark. It was oppressing. It hates upon anyone who travels in its territory (which, coincidentally, is the whole human population). A man, drunk, wanders on the streets. A piece of litter here, and a piece there. He tripped and fell, and tripped and fell, and yet again. But who will have pity upon a drunkard? The street lamps produce a dim cone of yellow light, alternating on the streets. Even the street lights try to avoid him. Trees stop their photosynthesis, and breathe out carbon dioxide to this tragedy of a man. Vehicles zoom by: To them, he is none but a dot. A dot that exists only for a millisecond. Yet they never fail to sound their complain. A complain of a single tone only.
A ton of bricks on his shoulders. But these bricks are no ordinary bricks. They aren't made of sand and concrete. They are made of time itself. Time... the heaviest and most poisonous substance. It pulls upon him, like a pit of quicksand. It is a disgraceful racer: It uses tricks to hinder you, yet dashes by fast. It leaves traps after it. These traps leave behind wounds that never heal. They never stop bleeding, as if to humiliate his clumsiness. Slowly, but surely, his blood drained dry, and he dies. It is a death that no one wants to die. A slow and painful death. Every second he is reminded of his fault. Every millisecond, every nanosecond.
Everyone expects perfection from him. He cannot commit crimes. He cannot even think of committing a crime. A mistake, and there is a stab. He feels so numb that even he himself doesn't know where that pain comes from: From others, from time itself, of even, from he himself. His brain is a non-resting one. He likes to write, but he has no words. He likes to read, but there are no books. Even equations betray him. Mathematics itself wants to go against him. The numbers jump out of place when his pen traces their contours. The equality sign refuses to justify his equations. His variables hide their identity from his calculator. A stab, and a stab, followed by none, but a stab.
He cries, but there are no tears. Sweat rains down his face, his neck, and his throat. His hand is so filled with sweat that it is rather useless to try to wipe away the sweat on his other body parts. He cries, and there is blood. Colourless blood. He cries, and there is no comfort. Only pitifully echoing wisps of wails. A thread by a thread, he cries his soul out. His feelings are dull, the grey wails only further engulfed by the night sky. At last, he cries, and not even sobs come out. But nobody could even tell whether he exists or not. He is just a point. His pure black suit, and his pure black trousers, and his pure black shoes, only to be accompanied by the pure black road, and the pure black sky, and the pure black shadow. He cries, and not even an atom cares.
He does not fear death. He does not fear tears. He does not fear the night. He does not fear the carbon dioxide. He does not want a "How are you?". He does not want companion. He does not want love (It stings to type this word). He does not want comfort.
What is "wanting" anyway? How can you "want" non-existent things?
