Promethean Thomas III
For those who desire to delve into the precipice of death with the obsession of the human's fear, the desolate room of research of Promethean Thomas III would do ideally for you. For none such place can prove analogous as this here room in which he resided befitting that of his so called entitlement. For Promethean Thomas III had felt it only purgatory for the Goddess, God or mystical Pegasus to have placed him on this plane with air to breathe, lungs to transpire, so on and so forth and yet plague him with a dire need to fear aspects unbeknown to him. This constant state of psychological liminality provoked him sorely. For on one side he was living through all the tools provided an organism to live and the other side, Promethean felt he'd already been dead.
He was angry.
Put me on this wretched Earth! He'd yell to the ceiling of his research room. Tell me to live! Live but force to accept an end I do not know what but that I know is! And will! Curse you!
It was a curse indeed, he'd concluded. For with no gift came such an overwhelming burden. Promethean believe that if he should live without knowing the stasis of humans’ greatest fear, then why would life be significant to him? If he cannot know what his perperature was or who his perpetrator was, then what was the sense living? He was surely just living in deceit, living under the false precept that life was a gift. He believed that one should know who or what to run from in order to know how to run, if not to run, or how fast to run. Ah! But then what was life really if all we did was run!
He had a headache.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Gah!” Promethean growled glaring at the door, “A few more minutes! You can wait, can you not?”
He received no answer and so hissing his teeth returned back to his dubious task of depicting what the hell his life meant. What was his purpose? Did he even have one? And if not, what useless human if he had no intentions on the world. Useless.
He scorned the word. Everything had a use. The broken chair beneath him had a use. The steel bed to the corner of the room had a use. His pen, his paper- uses! Uses! Uses! Those without use are thrown away. If he was without use, without intentions on this Earth, then was he too to be disposed of?
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Promethean sighed. “Give me a few more minutes damn it!”
He turned back to his desk.
But then he thought of his brother. The ferociously independent whimsical 21-year-old who would truly end up in a ditch if not for Prometheus. Then his fickle mother who had no one but her two sons. One son. His brother was too unpredictable. His daughter, his wife… was this his life? Was that his purpose. Perhaps this simple paradigm was his life. Taking care of those who he'd loved. And who loved him.
In revaluation, Promethean had jumped up, the broken chair finally shattering from the sheer force of his excitement.
Life! He shouted Life! Life! Life! Oh life!
He was in love with it! He was in love with it. In love with the notion of uncertainty. In love with the fact that life had much more to offer than a creeping shadow that followed on end till it was your end. Promethean didn't care anymore. He wanted to live! He wanted life!
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Okay damn it!” angrily Promethean stalked over to the iron door and pulled it open ready to yell at whoever had interrupted his revelation but pulled up short at the mystical creature that stood the threshold of his door.
A winged horse.
"Why so surprised? Had you not called for me? Prayed for me? Wanted for me?” the Pegasus asked in a rumbouse voice. A Godly voice.
"No!" Promethean paled, "No, no, no I've realized now! I figured it out! I now know my purpose!” He smiled brightly at the sense of relief in his heart, “My wife, my children, my mother, brother-these are who I must live for, for they live for me!”
“My purpose is companionship! In life, our purpose is to love and find those who will love us. I have. Now I’m ready to live. Pegasus, I shall live!"
The Godly creature gave a small smile. A kind sympathetic smile, and with this Promethean was confused. He furred his brows.
"My child, one does not choose when they are ready to live. Life chooses us. Not the other way around.”
His eyes widened in realization, and before the thought to retaliate came to mind, the Pegasus raised his wings, and without another word Promethean was enveloped in darkness.
For those who desire to delve into the precipice of death with the obsession of the human's fear, the desolate room of research of Promethean Thomas III would do ideally for you. For it was there in the dark isolated room that he had figured the meaning of life through his infatuation with death. And it was there it was confirmed that death was a shadow that truly did follow on end til the end. Promethean’s revaluations didn’t matter.
It had been his time to go.