Battered, blistered,bashed and boiled,
I am still here. My story is no more important than yours,
I refuse to give in, I will fight it all. My time here is a constant struggle. I have no idea why I would want to continue, except that I am compelled so to do.
I envy those who meet the world with smiles, their laughter feels as a whip against my spine.
You see, I am just surviving until I die. Worse still I am not alone. Before me, with me and long in the future, others will push forward against the horror of existence, for what else can they do? To lie down and die is NOT an option at all.
We stand together, yet so alone. Our endurance will pull us through, pain after pain, towards the ultimate peace of death.
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Whimsy
She wanted to be good, she really did but it was a struggle every minute of every day because she wanted to be satisfied constantly. She knew that it didn't make sense, all through her childhood she had been taught that affection was obsolete. Her parents rarely appeared more than friends residing in the same house. Her father paid the bills and then some. Her mother was able to purchase anything she wanted to, within reason. They weren't super rich but they didn't have to worry about pounds and pennies on a daily basis. Her father showed love to her and her mother regularly even effusively, her mother, however, only showed love to her own brother and mother. So given all that, she didn't understand her keenly developed sense of desire. It wasn't reliable though or predictable. Either she wanted, ached for passion, or she wanted nothing. When it was absent she collapsed down into herself, somewhat akin to a hedgehog defending itself she was spiky and cross with anyone who tried to get close.
By Eveline Bright3 years ago in Humans
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