to whom it may concern
a drabble by woochann.
sephiroth©square enix
…
It was like a break in the wind, a cry in the night, and a veil over a bride. Everything was wrought of something, and nothing. Days rarely ended in peace, and nights never ceased to keep the dawn away. Everything and everyone had a tragedy mingled in a bit of love. It was never quite enough, this living without a purpose. However, it was something he had gotten use to years before it mattered. Years before he cared. Too many times had he counted how much he felt useless in a world that was full of purposeless goals, illogical dreams, and hypocritical ideals. Age really did affect your judgment, you dwelt more and lingered longer. You felt, strangely, sadness to see years pass when you could have done something more worth the time, you spent complaining, and bickering over useless squabbles.
He took another sip of the wine spinning in his glass, and looked back out the window that stared into a sea of lights. Everything sparkled, glittered, and glowed. It looked delightfully uninteresting to the person gazing out the window into this golden sea. He never understood the fascination with the city. Either many people who lived in one became another number, another face to feed, another person to read about on the news who was murdered, murdering, dying, suffering, complaining, or rejoicing when they won something that was better earned, or they were a group of elites-making everyone else feel inferior. The city was meant for people who were lonely enough to seek fake faces in order to quell a problem that could not be fixed with numbers. A city was meant for people who seeked fame in one way or another. He had never once run into a person who came to the city for comfort, peace, and quiet. They came to be noisy and loud, or nonexistent, and petty.
Why did he stay in the city? He was one of the few people who you would meet who would tell you that it was because he knew nothing else; it was normal. The city was just a place to him, a means to a goal. He did not enjoy the cities bounty, but did not hate the cities usefulness in becoming invisible when you did not seek an audience. The air, however, was stale.
The air in the city was treated like a routine: taking in the clogged air, which coated your lungs with pollution, stench, and grime, and then releasing just as tainted air back into the atmosphere. The city was not meant for people who were weak, or sick. Only people who were strong, who could endure, and who could withstand-made it in the city, or else it ate you alive.
Now that he had no purpose, no goal to living, for fighting, for being; his mind constantly wandered. Sometimes he felt lost and small in his own mind. Trapped within its walls, locked behind its doors, and caught in its cracks. It was this time alone that had caused his downfall the first time. The second time, the third time. He lost count how many times his mind trapped him, made him mad with power, hungry for change, longing for something different. Something where he was king of it all, ruling a nation that finally acknowledged his accomplishments because he had made them, not because he was to be born a monster designed to kill other monsters, hiding in a hero's skin. Designed for selfish purposes, and dark desires. He finally wanted some truth in his world that was built in lies.
He wondered from somewhere foreign: if it would happen again. How he came back a fourth time was something he did not know, but he was here. Cloud was somewhere, which he did not care. It was odd to not care. Of course, when you chased someone most of your life, it became your life, and when you suddenly did not have the desire to do so anymore: it was out of place. What was peace like?
What was it like to look at yourself and be content? He would probably never know because he would be bleeding from wounds since healed for the rest of his life.
'Can sins ever be forgiven?'
He would never know.