There are those who say something that has been broken cannot be mended. Does that mean they have attempted to fix what was wrecked, or did they simply abandon the pieces to wither in the forces of nature and scatter towards the far ends of the earth with each passing wind? Even something that has been shattered can be healed to some extent, though it may not hold the full magnitude, or perhaps the more effective term is glimmer, of its original beauty and grace.
Or so, maybe that can also be seen as a false tale meant to cast the shimmering ripples of that funny feeling that so many determine to be hope. Not that anything is wrong with hope, casting aside the small irony that sometimes clinging to something so unreal can be damaging and much more harmful than simply lying down and throwing away the fight.
If it can even be called a fight, really, an understatement for the larger importance that it beholds.
Trivial issues like this were mind boggling, and the unneeded contemplation on such pessimistic ideas would only leave the individual feeling doubt towards them self, along with an abundance of stress that often would cause them to either lash out in anger or being confined to self-solitude, cutting off contact with those in the outside world. It can be very depressing, seeing people ruin their lives by inflicting such drastic and irrational punishments on both themselves and those around him who constantly cannot help but worry about their wellbeing. In truth, they are essentially dying by their own hands as they chip away at the simplicity of life little by little.
And for those who are so unfortunate enough to not grasp the reality of how precious that seemingly small stem of life is, it is quite depressing to watch them whither and wilt like a dying flower, once holding such elegance and poise and burning into a wisp of dull, unacquainted cinders that crumble into dust and drift away into the shadows of nothingness. It is this life, which others who are far more successful with fortune will so foolishly cast aside others who drown in the depths of depression as if it were the utmost sin of eternal damnation that desolates the individual and swallows them whole to satiate its undying hunger.
But for him, someone who had lived the larger extent of his seemingly immortal life as an outcast to those close and foreign to him, this was simply another treacherous day that was undoubtedly going to attack him with the vicious blows of reality and the cruelness that existed. If there was a light that existed anywhere in this world, it would not cast its glow upon him and grant him mercy from the hellish existence he'd been brought about to face every single day.
Many had been forced to face this.
For him, the one who had faced abandonment and rejection from his own flesh and blood, a man who had cast him aside in favor of his younger sibling despite being the only father figure he'd ever known, cheerfulness was unknown in darkened hazel eyes. A smile was seldom seen pressed upon his lips, and his attitude toward others was often punitive, if not a little fierce at times. This included his younger sibling, though the irony of it was that he adored him to such an extent, he often scolded himself physically when knowingly upsetting the other. At times he had gone so far as to leave hideous excessive bruises that would slowly vanish during a rather lengthy period of time, much to his disgust and displeasure. Not much could be done about this however, so he could only bear with the torment he inflicted on himself.
This is what he had been doing prior to his current situation, letting the blade draw lines of the pretty scarlet liquid that would flow at a steadfast pace down the soft, tender skin. It was so simple to watch it trail across the soft patches of the ever healing tissues that were ancient scars from long ago. The way they crossed over each other in a variety of areas on the once virgin skin was like a vicious art design.
These scars were nothing to be proud of, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride about them as he admired each and every one of them with a fascination that would disturb anyone who so much as cast a general glance in his immediate direction. Each one held a story, maybe not one of positive aspects, but a story nonetheless. They told of his struggles of being condemned, of being rejected and oppressed, of being alienated by the outside world and having been tossed into the corner with what seemed to be the word, "pitiful," tattooed to his forehead for those who passed by to see and silently mock him for.
None of that mattered now; he'd learned to live and rely solely on himself to avoid the insight of those around him. Dark as that may seem, it was the pure truth that was his personal opinion, an opinion that had been molded by the way those around him treated him.
But, enough about his personal thoughts, for the routine that had formed the mask he chose to wear was now set, and he would hide within it from the outsiders that sought to break him down and forge him into their twisted assimilationist views of how the people of society should work. It wasn't their choice on how he should decide to orchestrate his life, despite that many, if not all of his actions were dubious and hazardous to an alarming extent to others and himself at time. It was his pigheadedness, his audacity to go against their advice and continue along down his path of self-destructiveness which was abnormally the exact reason he was so hell-bent on fixing the damage exacted on his life.
Many had been unable to contemplate the aspects that made up the complexity of the life that, abnormally, had detached itself from the common and orderly simplicity and become something obstruct, perchance even something of a threat in the commonly eyes of those living fairly relaxed lives, relaxed being for a lack of the trauma and misfortunes that he had had placed upon him. He wouldn't envision them being able to apprehend the hellish things he'd witnessed, the ghastly truths he had confronted.
Other times, there were those slim, fleeting moments that he was satisfied with his life and where he was taking it. Those moments where life didn't appear to be against him and it could be considered… peaceful in ways that he normally wouldn't be able to grasp with his pessimistic views of how his life was, or what it was slowly becoming. It was those moments that he cherished with such a frank desire that it filled him with a small sense of hope.
Sadly, it was around that time that the reality of the darkness that had enveloped him long ago would rise up and drown him again, and the flashes of what had happened behind the closed door of isolation would suffocate him in its hideously disfigured palms.
Thinking back, back to the times when the mask itself was an everyday thing in his life, and he was so accustomed to adorning it that for some time he himself had forgotten who he truly was and what he stood for. To lose himself within a figure he had created that would be able to battle the forces that were the outside world and its endless inhabitants. This mask that had given him a chance to dwell among the others in the simplicity of life and all the gifts it presented him.
It wasn't his life though. It never would be.
To live in a world where he could not be himself, where he had to lie and hide his true from to avoid the criticism he would receive, the pitying gazes that would mock him in their judging silence. To live knowing ever word, every step, and every choice he made was made by the false pseudo that had corrupted his thoughts to subconsciously force him in line with the rest of the lot.
That was the point that he had suddenly snapped, and the words he'd hidden within himself for so long erupted from his lithe frame with such force it shook those to the core who heard it.
"How do you think it feels, being the person who has to hide their identity because they'll always been ignored and unaccepted for who they are?
How do you think it feels knowing that those people who insist on calling you their friend, only know the part of you that doesn't exist, the part of you that is the lie that is the base for how you go about in the public viewing eye?
How do you think it feels knowing that no one has ever gone so far as the surface to every attempt to understand you and the way you really think and act? To know that no matter what, those people who call you your friend are so daft in their assumptions that you are who you show yourself to be is what you show, rather than learn the truth behind the intimate number of layers you've thrown up just to protect yourself from the pain.
How must it feel hearing people talk about you and your life like you're some sort of prodigy worth talking about? To have to hear people compliment your family and every great thing about you that is nothing but a wall of lies to keep them from assembling and inflicting more pain.
How do you think it feels to know I can look my own grandfather in the eye and so blithely lie to him, because I'm afraid he'll beat me if he doesn't like the answer I give him to any question, or that I was tossed aside like a pile of rubbish because everyone favored my brother over me?
How do you think it feels to be considered last in everything you've ever done and feel like the only reason you were born was to be someone else's stepping stool."
It wasn't nearly as much as he wished he had conveyed to those around him, though the plain sadness that suddenly danced in their eyes was not something of positive aspect. Through their sadness, he'd noted the palpable pity that continuously lingered. This is why he shied away from their comforting gestures, why he fled so often that it left others thinking maybe simply just wanted more attention.
Shame the fools who were so naïve to not understand that the thing he was running from that he loathed so pliably was the pity. It was frustrating to watch as they were unable to establish that he simply wanted them to understand who he really was, instead of following the continuation of added pity loading up.
It was the same, even after he had long since resided to his original isolation from the rest of the world. In this isolation, he had found in himself a solace that filled him with gratitude that could not be granted by others, despite his lingering desire for it to do so. A desire that was obsolete and he was keenly aware of the fact. Nothing was going to change in the next, well he wasn't sure how long exactly forever would be, so that would be an inaccurate assumption to make on his own part, delving into the lands that were hypocrisy.
If something could have been done, it should have been long, long ago, back when he was younger and more innocent. Perhaps the aspects that made up his childhood could be blamed for the misfortunes that were currently making up the unsteady difficulties that were his life. But he would go about his everyday life as he normally did, facing the certainty that really, it wasn't going to change.
It was never going to change how much he clung to the dying hope that God would bestow some kind of small fortune upon him just once in his life. It was like he had been born, if you could say he was actually born as he had neither a mother nor a father, simply to bear the wrath of eternal damnation for no given reason he'd even be able to receive, no matter how many times he begged for it.
Pitiful positions were the only things he ever found himself in now, so he didn't really have anything left to lose. Aside his life, which didn't seem to mean all that much to him despite the fact that he was alive for a purpose – even if he refused to accept that said purpose – there was nothing left for him to keep breathing that breath of life for. But, he continued to press on in life, though he was not going anywhere.
Thus, his small flame would undoubtedly endure its flicker; for how long, well, that was the unknown.