Unto the Undead, Full of Resignation
I long stopped caring what they looked like. I've seen everything. Those with disfigurations, those with perfect looks, those who are mundane, those with a sense of fatigue in their eyes, those whos eyes were sunken long before the covetuous curse took them.
It's the ones who can still smile that crush me. Those with white souls. In the end, those are the ones who intensify the tragedy. Who spit in the face of the dread, and pay the price in the end. Those ones I never speak with. I'm too much of an opposing force, too crestfallen. I would happily try to help them realize just how sick this world is. They won't end up with their minds lost, wandering the kingdom, sickeningly charging anyone with souls to take.
But that last shred of duty stops me. Those are the only ones who can win. Those are the only ones with the strength to complete this melancholy trek. Those who have the will to survive, all from their fortunate ingorance of everything around them.
So, in the end, those who smile, I just keep staring down at the ground, never responding, never talking. Personify the lonlieness, just so that this can end one day. As much as that seems like nonsense as every sunset passes.
Maybe I'll recognize the one who can fight through, the one who will survive, who will break the curse. Maybe he'll be the definition of strength, a steadfast wall against misery. My last hope.
Somehow I doubt that. But true lonlieness is always filled with hope. No matter what happens, there must always be that cruel monster, hope. Something that can break all bad things.
Hope has killed me. It hasn't been my own blundering mistakes, it hasn't been the enemies' vigor, it hasn't been steel, sorcery, miracles, or sheer deprivation. Hope tears my chest apart. Hope rips off my limbs. Hope makes the cuts in my skin. Breaks my bones. Terrifies me. Screaches through my mind, tearing everything apart. Hope is the one thing that keeps me human.
Yet, somehow, I'm all the more hollow from it.
