Hope can drive a man crazy. The uncertainty . . . the crushing possibility of failure . . . the lofty expectancies of something better . . . all intertwined into a silly thing called Hope. But am I any better for deserting this Hope? This magical pill of life that drives every man forward into his demise . . . is it my misfortune to sardonically scoff at faith?
"Where did your soul disappear off to?," they asked. The words were not said, but you could feel the inquisitive yet condescending stare in their eyes. I merely stared back . . . cold and emotionless. What else was I supposed to do? Answer the question? I never did know the answer. Somewhere behind that callous mask of enigma, I am really just a frightened child wondering where I am and why I am.
For a frightened child under such deceiving facades, I still banish your petty thing called Hope. I had Hope . . . and those years were the longest, most agonizingly painful years of my life. When you cry shamefully for days, begging on your knees, and removing every shred of dignity of your very soul as you Hope that your wife will be spared, do they care? Do they know the despair in your heart? Hope couldn't save my love . . . and I'll be damned if it saves me.
When I look at the girl though . . . some of my wife was saved. True, it is into a spoiled, bratty girl . . . but since her father is a weak fool, she turned out better than most would expect. If you suppose that I should have Hope for her . . . the past is long forgotten. She is no more to me than I am to her. We only share a memento . . . a ring . . . but it threads me no closer to her than it would with anyone else.
It's better to forget anyways. When you shiver in the thin walls while rain mercilessly pounds around you, you don't say that you'll remember it tomorrow. You don't ask everyday why your mother has abandoned you under the watchful eyes of liars for eternity . . . When your idiocy causes the death of a true friend, do you lament for the rest of your life? Do you dream and wake up in a horrific abruption every night as you witness those sharp metal teeth tear through your friend's vitality? And when . . . your wife has become a dirty puppet for heartless men to toy with, you don't . . . you don't . . . you don't . . . re . . mem . . ber . . .
I'm so sorry . . .
Don't give me despair . . . I'm swimming in it. Regrets and melancholy . . . I know those words too well. And without friends . . . haha . . . they're not my friends. They merely serve as my step towards penance . . . I do selfishly use them without their slightest understanding of my motives. But they'll be fine . . . neither my "friends" nor I shall be hurt in the end. I'll just be without them . . . utterly alone.
Tomorrow will be the last day I'll use them. We'll climb that monstrosity and I'll look down on the world I'll be saving. Hah . . . it'll be a strange feeling when I'll be saving something I hate so much. Why did this fertile earth bore me? And so many countless others who never wished for birth . . . when the madman tore through you with his malicious wrath . . . perhaps it was your punishment for creating and destroying us . . .
But I have questioned that long enough. I'll be departing soon . . . all that is left is the long wait. A long wait for everything . . . even death . . . is it not laughable? Perhaps more ironic . . . is that I'll have Hope this time. Not for the world . . . I could care less. Not for the girl . . . I do not deserve a daughter like her. Only for myself . . . ever so selfish again. I Hope . . . that this time . . . my death will be less painful . . . but it will. My wife is gone . . . my soul is gone . . .
I'm . . . sorry.
"Where did your soul disappear off to?," they asked. The words were not said, but you could feel the inquisitive yet condescending stare in their eyes. I merely stared back . . . cold and emotionless. What else was I supposed to do? Answer the question? I never did know the answer. Somewhere behind that callous mask of enigma, I am really just a frightened child wondering where I am and why I am.
For a frightened child under such deceiving facades, I still banish your petty thing called Hope. I had Hope . . . and those years were the longest, most agonizingly painful years of my life. When you cry shamefully for days, begging on your knees, and removing every shred of dignity of your very soul as you Hope that your wife will be spared, do they care? Do they know the despair in your heart? Hope couldn't save my love . . . and I'll be damned if it saves me.
When I look at the girl though . . . some of my wife was saved. True, it is into a spoiled, bratty girl . . . but since her father is a weak fool, she turned out better than most would expect. If you suppose that I should have Hope for her . . . the past is long forgotten. She is no more to me than I am to her. We only share a memento . . . a ring . . . but it threads me no closer to her than it would with anyone else.
It's better to forget anyways. When you shiver in the thin walls while rain mercilessly pounds around you, you don't say that you'll remember it tomorrow. You don't ask everyday why your mother has abandoned you under the watchful eyes of liars for eternity . . . When your idiocy causes the death of a true friend, do you lament for the rest of your life? Do you dream and wake up in a horrific abruption every night as you witness those sharp metal teeth tear through your friend's vitality? And when . . . your wife has become a dirty puppet for heartless men to toy with, you don't . . . you don't . . . you don't . . . re . . mem . . ber . . .
I'm so sorry . . .
Don't give me despair . . . I'm swimming in it. Regrets and melancholy . . . I know those words too well. And without friends . . . haha . . . they're not my friends. They merely serve as my step towards penance . . . I do selfishly use them without their slightest understanding of my motives. But they'll be fine . . . neither my "friends" nor I shall be hurt in the end. I'll just be without them . . . utterly alone.
Tomorrow will be the last day I'll use them. We'll climb that monstrosity and I'll look down on the world I'll be saving. Hah . . . it'll be a strange feeling when I'll be saving something I hate so much. Why did this fertile earth bore me? And so many countless others who never wished for birth . . . when the madman tore through you with his malicious wrath . . . perhaps it was your punishment for creating and destroying us . . .
But I have questioned that long enough. I'll be departing soon . . . all that is left is the long wait. A long wait for everything . . . even death . . . is it not laughable? Perhaps more ironic . . . is that I'll have Hope this time. Not for the world . . . I could care less. Not for the girl . . . I do not deserve a daughter like her. Only for myself . . . ever so selfish again. I Hope . . . that this time . . . my death will be less painful . . . but it will. My wife is gone . . . my soul is gone . . .
I'm . . . sorry.