There is not a single second of my existence in which I don't feel as if the world is actively against me. Fate Herself wishes for nothing more than to see me killed off and subject to an endless purgatory of rot and irrelevancy.
I was never meant to be alive. In another more primitive, cruel time, I was the weaker man who had his food stolen from him by someone more capable, stronger, and intelligent than I ever could be. Eventually exiled for being a leech, I was left to fend for myself, undoubtedly in vain, and resign myself to a solemn, melancholic end as I die of starvation in the cold of the night. I am a stain on this world that serves no other purpose than being something 'wrong' that is inevitably washed away through the process of time and nature.
Do I, as a 'human,' even truly exist? Was I meant to be? Are the words I type, the thoughts I conjure, the things I like, the things I dislike, the things that make me smile, things that make me cry—utterly useless and irrelevant? What meaning or purpose do those things have if they come from the likes of a being who is unwanted by anyone or anything? Who decided this for me? Was it God? If so, why has my Lord forsaken me so...?
Maybe reality is that I don't exist at all—not in any way that means anything, at least...
No matter how fortunate my circumstances may be in other aspects of my life, that is all that I was ultimately afforded—trinkets, toys, and theatre to bide my time with until Fate discovers the dark cave I hid from her in, and has me finally eradicated into the corpse she had always intended me to be.
I was never meant to be alive. In another more primitive, cruel time, I was the weaker man who had his food stolen from him by someone more capable, stronger, and intelligent than I ever could be. Eventually exiled for being a leech, I was left to fend for myself, undoubtedly in vain, and resign myself to a solemn, melancholic end as I die of starvation in the cold of the night. I am a stain on this world that serves no other purpose than being something 'wrong' that is inevitably washed away through the process of time and nature.
Do I, as a 'human,' even truly exist? Was I meant to be? Are the words I type, the thoughts I conjure, the things I like, the things I dislike, the things that make me smile, things that make me cry—utterly useless and irrelevant? What meaning or purpose do those things have if they come from the likes of a being who is unwanted by anyone or anything? Who decided this for me? Was it God? If so, why has my Lord forsaken me so...?
Maybe reality is that I don't exist at all—not in any way that means anything, at least...
No matter how fortunate my circumstances may be in other aspects of my life, that is all that I was ultimately afforded—trinkets, toys, and theatre to bide my time with until Fate discovers the dark cave I hid from her in, and has me finally eradicated into the corpse she had always intended me to be.
