This whole shitfest, technically, belongs to Stephenie Meyer. And the title, technically, belongs to Alexander Gaskarth and company. Just let me take credit for these words, okay?
All right, loves. This'll read fast and it'll update relatively quickly (and by relatively, I mean in comparison to my other fic, which isn't really updating at all, but for good reasons . . . sorry). In the meantime, take a look at The Valediction by HumanShield, and We Are Nomads, Bathed in Concrete by oxymoronic8. The first one shook me, the second one coaxed me into tears. Both inspired me to start typing.
Keep an open mind, and try not to hate the length of the chapters.
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1. un
~ Strange maze, what is this place? / Wonder, why do we race? ~
She writes her truth.
The lines glide across the screen, flow from her fingertips. These words are crafted on the spot – visual, pixilated evidence of her visceral, closet hatred of existence.
Her fingers are stiff and a hair band stems the circulation to her palm. Small pains shoot up her forearms, tingling up single tendons and pinching at the crease of her elbow – the beginning symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome – but she doesn't notice. These twinges, these aches: they all go unnoticed. The soft, rapid clicks of the keys are echoing around the room, but no one hears their shallow timbre. Not even her.
She's too far gone.
She wonders what the point is. The raison d'être, the why. Why are we here? What goal are we trying to achieve, as a whole, as a world? Or is it all a joke?
Is she a joke?
And she pours it all out through her impatient knuckles and into the keyboard, purging her depression onto a blank Word document. She would write it down, but there's nowhere left to write, her Mont Blanc is out of ink, and her hands hurt too much already. Typing is easier.
Her tired terra-cotta eyes slide closed, but her fingers continue to move as letters churn against her eyelids like oil.
I am my mother's indifference and my father's silent suffering, clashing, melding, in a battle to the death – something I may or may not welcome with open arms. We were all born out of ignorance and short attention spans that favor changes in the scenery . . . but of these nine billion people and the trillions that came before us, how come none remember what happened before the mother's womb? How are we all so oblivious? How can no one know of what is out there?
What if there is nothing?
What if we are nothing?
She briefly pauses to contemplate getting a degree in philosophy, or perhaps psychology, but she shoots the option down without a second thought.
This is her logic these days.
Nothing matters.
But what the fuck is nothing?