EmptinessA Story by dklp88
A person's struggle with himself
I sit here, translating romantic emptiness into moral emptiness. There mere fact that I have a hole that cannot be filled means that I feel as if a failure. And now I sit here and watch one love spin further and further away, and the other fall deeper into a hole that I cannot reach them from. And while I could move mountains and drain oceans based off pure force of will, I could not reach what mattered to me. I couldn’t put the world on my shoulders and bend it to my desires. It was utter bullshit, but it was the truth. The only truth that really mattered.
So I sit here, impotent and useless. I tried to take in the fundamental happiness of two souls into my care, and to nourish it, acting as a silent protector against threats. But I could not. I failed to act within my own powers to save them. If either of them is to gain happiness, it would not be of my own actions, but despite my utter failure. If I couldn’t save what I cared about, then there was no reason to save anything at all. Much better to watch the world burn and pretend to be heartless, instead of trying to actively put out the flames with kerosene. That was how I viewed it at least.
So I sit here, smoking on a cigarette, trying to block out whatever form of suffering I was feeling. It was easier, in the past, when I could just lock away any feelings that I had into a little corner of my soul. But I can no longer do that. I started to care too much, and too long. So my little perfectly balanced world fell apart, and it started to burn. Like a wildfire started by a careless cigarette, it started off small, with a little kindling, and then started to grow faster and more powerful. Soon, not even I could attempt to fight it, and the heat is licking up against me, ever so greatly.
So I sit here, watching my world burn around me. That also used to be easier in the past. I would do it every so often, as a form of house cleaning. Take out the old, and bring in the new. But no longer do I want to surrender what I have. I made a sacred vow to protect, and I have not. That little shred of honour I have left demands that I stand up to it, but my rationality tells me to abandon it. And I fight it out between the two. At two o’clock in the morning, my honour looks real nice, but after just waking up, my rationality seems absolute. So I continue my battle between two competing ideologies that could work together if they ever decided so, but choose not to.
So I sit here, defeated and broken. As a sword shatters when presented with iron too thick, so did my life shatter when everything decided to spiral out of control. But I wondered; wondered if it was all my fault. If it was the actions that I took in order to assure some sense of inner peace, in order to protect that which I determined was worth protecting, if that was the root cause of my inability to protect. Had I not intervened, maybe there would be a better world awaiting me. But looking back, there was no option not to intervene. I could not rationalize the thought of leaving the problems alone, of not testing my mettle in this situation. I had to act, even if taking action was the worst possible thing that I could do.
So I sit here, a facsimile of the person I once was. And in order to distract myself from it all, I create fantasy worlds. Worlds in which I am the sole inhabitant. Worlds where everything is possible to bend to my will. Worlds were all of time and space are no object to my desires. Worlds where I can shed the moral code that I so carefully cultivated, formed, to meet some ideal that I strive for. Worlds where the term loyalty does not mean anything. Worlds where there is no balance, but one pure ideology that I can conform to, without having to hear out any other ideas. Worlds where I am no longer myself, or even better, I become myself whole and true again.
So I sit here, lording over an empire of ash and dust, pretending that it’s an empire of infinitium. I try desperately to distract myself from all that occurred, but I fail. Over and over again, I try the same techniques, but there is nothing. No solace, no saviour. Nothing. And I laugh at the folly of my ideas. For what does the protector become when their wards cannot be saved, or does not need it? What becomes of the protector when they are the one who have fallen ever so far? And the most pressing question keeps on pushing on the inside of my skull, trying to worm its way out: What shall become of me? Will I waste away? Is there a chance of redemption?
So I sit here, trying to obliterate my consciousness with martinis. And I wish that my words of flying over all of reality without being dragged down by the pettiness of the mortals that live below were true. I wish that the bitterness in my mouth was from the alcohol and not the self loathing that I was currently going through. I wish that my mind would slip away, and lose its insatiable desire to be the absolute commander of my actions always. I wish that the basest desires could influence me, make me act and at least give me some sense of fulfillment, of achievement. I wish that there was something, anything, which would fill the hole of emptiness. And I reflect on all that I have said, and make one final wish: that I could concentrate all of my disappointment and hatred of myself into a single point of contention, rather than hating everything.
So I sit here, trying to avoid the empty promises that are as dark as a moonless night, and the broken promises of glass, waiting for you to cut yourself on them. And I remember, all of those people seeking advice from me, advice on which I would pull it out of nowhere, based only on an extensive literary knowledge. And I wonder why they kept on coming back to me, kept on asking questions. Questions on which I clearly had no answer to. Yet they kept on coming back. It made me believe that people where not looking for advice, but in reality a friendly ear. And I wonder how no one ever told me that. That my advice was useless, but they just wanted to vent. For I could understand that, but I could not understand what they told me. That my advice was useful, and nice, and good. And I summarize my reflections. And realize that everything I did, all that was the total summation of the person who inhabited my body, who classified my soul, was nothing. I was nothing, and was a failure.
So I sit here.
© 2012 dklp88
Added on June 9, 2012
Last Updated on June 9, 2012