There are days when I wish for death.
The thought ensnares my mind, slithering through the entrails of my thoughts, warping the creation of my madness as I drown deeper and deeper into the abyss of confusion and embitterment.
Sand, blood, salt and sweat.
Kazekage – a title worthy of noone. A title worthy of a murderer.
The sound of laughter envelops me from outside my tower, threatening to break my composure and seek out my curiosity - but I could not succumb to such pleasantries. Even with all this … newfound reverence, there is something missing. Always missing. Some essential part of the human psychology that'd missed me as it bore its fruits into other people.
How unlike my subjects I am.
They have their laughter.
I have despair.
Despair and monotony.
A moment's weakness brings me to the windowsill. I watch with quiet dismissal at the scene before me: of sand dunes and purple-pink clouds, scattered conversations and carefree pacts. Pacts – between comrades, friends, lovers. Pacts of tolerance, friendship, acceptance and something so painfully unconditional that I haven't yet the ability to comprehend. And then something happens - a distant memory stirs within me. I close my eyes and am greeted by an image of my siblings taking their familiar positions behind me under a hot sun. Even though this is a recollection, I could subconsciously feel the sand – my sand - trickling through the air. A hand reaches up to grasp mine – gently, without pretenses, impossibly kind.
Eyes as clear as a summer's night in the desert, and hair as brilliant as the golden sun.
I break from my reverie and glance at the papers littered on my desk, looking over the forms requiring authorization and signatures before retreating back into my seat.
Hn, seat?
Throne, pedestal, resting place of the damned, whatever they perceive it to be nowadays. I couldn't care less about the opinions of others – apathy has long been a coping mechanism that both made and destroyed me. But I couldn't give it up now. I survey the walls around me, at the intricately etched curtains, the polished floor, expensive furniture and row upon endless row of books and scrolls. A slight headache rumbles through me, and I suppress a sigh as I feel my scar throbbing. I have too much. Way too much. My tastes call for minimalism, not lavishness; simplistic finery without the grandiose add-ons. I close my eyes to free myself of the sight. In doing so, another image solidifies in my mind.
I could barely fight back a chuckle.
Is this what's been missing?
The emotive quality I despised above all else – that quality I claim to demonstrate for myself and only myself – that's what's been missing?
Despair and monotony.
I set down my pen with quiet defeat, and rub my aching eyes. Metaphorically, I'm announcing something. I need a crutch.