I am no different than a cracked mirror... No... I don't have the luxury to compare myself to a cracked mirror. A mirror still reflects the beauty of the face. Here I am reflecting on nothing. Doing nothing. And becoming nothing.
How could I begin to describe myself? This body is not mine. I've lost my hope for this shape and form I wear. I am no longer the child that holds a mother's hand. I'm a useless human, no different than a single drop of mud. How could I find myself to be happy? If my happiness was gone? A child? I was never a child.
He was a child, and I only wore a mask. And now that mask is gone. All I see is the endless stream of sadness. You were once happy? It was not happiness, I insisted. Why would I let something so fleeting be wasted?
You were once laughing? Laughing? Don't compare rats to me. I am much more insignificant than rats. I have no luxury to laugh.
You were once a light, a bright light, that was alive.... I laughed. It's ironic isn't it? Was the light you mentioned an illusion? What should I even do? Be sad? Isn't happiness and sadness for humans? I am not human. No longer a Human. Even if I were a Human. Am I not different than a slave?
But at least a slave helped people? Then I am not a slave. I am not a human. I do not deserve to be called a Human, a joyful child, a smiling brother, or a loving husband.
I am a reflection of my own words. I reflect on nothing. Because there was no light or words to reflect. The only thing I have now, is a void that wants to consume me. A nothingness that relates to me. But even the nothingness has something. I'm no different than a metaphor for it.
This is not a memory that I carry. I don't deserve to have memories. A person would rather kill themselves than become me. This is only me gnawing on the bones of my false memories.
Like a starving dog that eats air and convinces itself it is food.
I compare myself to a tree. But the breeze, the warmth, the giggle.
Wasn't that the sound of leaves trembling?
No... It was the sound of me lying to myself that I would ever be compared to a tree. To me, it is a luxury to be called a tree. To a tree, it is a curse to be even compared to me. It's beautiful. It's warm.
Should not be compared to a worthless being like me.
There was only a draft pretending to be kind and loving. There was only loneliness dressing itself as comfort.
Even if I were to compare myself to a stone. But in chapter 2, didn't I walk in the rooms? Didn't I claim the house as mine? Didn't I tell myself the silence was listening? The stone has a purpose that even I couldn't fathom. It could hold to names, it could remember those names, it could remember things. I couldn't even hold anyone. Aren't I just a burning stone? No... At least a burning stone could be something.
The dust is freer than I am. Dust is more an identity than me. A dust is more contributing than I. A dust has more than I could just wish to have, but I don't. Because I will never have its luxury. I said I was still real. Wasn't the dust talking and not me?
The dust could dance and bathe in sunlight.
But it only drifts because air forces it. I believe I was real. I believe I mattered. But only because the illusions forced me. Dragged me. Pushed me. To be something. But it is now gone. I am a dust with no light left. I am dust rotting in corners. Dust that no one bothered to sweep. Yet it destroys the household.
I speak again. I will be remembered. No...
No one will remember me. Not even this household because of it, there is only it that needs to be remembered. Because there is nothing for me to remember. I have no one to remember me. I will forgive myself. He will not forgive himself. I will not forgive myself. No, the world does not forgive what it forgets. No, the world will not even care even if it knew it forgot something. Because I am too useless to even be hated. Hatred is a myth to me.
I am no longer here. No, as you read this, I have already disappeared. The skin is still warm, but the soul is already a draft sneaking under the door. My soul is no different from the air, but the air is free, because of it, and mine is trapped because of me.
I suffer myself. But the collapse is slow, patient, like wood rotting under rain. The beam still stands, but every nail is rusted, like the proof of my existence. I hear the cracks, I feel the weight. Every thought splinters into smaller thoughts that I couldn't carry, and even those splinters whisper that I am nothing.
I have lost my wife, the words I tried to keep alive. But even those are gone, even the feelings are gone. If she were here. Would she recognize this hunk of a form of flesh? Would she touch my face, and call me hers?
No, she would step back.
She would slap me, she would be mad at me.
She would not kiss a ruin.
She wouldn't hold the hand of a corpse pretending to exist but even the anchors of my illusions are gone.
She would not hold a corpse still pretending to be a husband.
I have no one left to speak to but the house. The mind. The void. And everything does not answer. Does not talk. Does not speak. It groans, yes.
But that is not speech. It is the noise of the old wood mocking me for still trying to be something. For believing in an illusion. Trying to be something from nothing.
I am worthless. Even the words that I say feel too heavy for me. I can't have any words. Worthless things can still be used as examples.
I am worse. I am less than worthless. I am a man-shaped hole. An empty shell of a non-existent memory. I am part of a sentence that is erased, but still leaves a smudge on the paper.
You should leave. I tell myself, as if I had any hope left. Step outside, step into the sunlight. No. Outside is the present, and I do not belong to the present. I will not waste the sunlight on me. I will not waste the present because of me.
Outside, people live. Inside, only I remain. And that is the punishment I brought to my pathetic self.
You should die... Yes. But even death does not want me. I have waited centuries for it. And still does not knock. I kept telling myself that I should enjoy my time, but I have no time. I guess death itself doesn't waste his time for someone like me.
You should stop speaking. But I answer anyway. I always answer anyway. Because if I don't answer I would fall into a void that I made.
I was once a man. With a great life.
Now I am ruining answering itself.
Now I am a dialogue between silence and silence.
Now I am the future mockery.
The house creaks like it is mocking me.
The dust dances like it was sweeping me out.
The clock ticks like it is laughing.
And I answer them all, with only truth left:
I am not a person in the future. I have already lost.