Reconstruction

My soul is a cool stream that flows from the mountains. Quickly, excitedly, it charges forth into the warmth of the woodlands. Encountering the many twists and turns of its course through life, my soul slows, meeting the river and joining the souls of the many others of the world. We move as one entity, one mind, heading slowly into the abyss of the oceans. When finally we reach our destination, my soul sinks slowly from the light, into the freezing depths, into the cold darkness below.

Some people are maintained by happiness, some by ambition, some by simple routine. As I wake in sadness to yet another day, I quickly discover that I am maintained only by sorrow. Each sunrise that my consciousness stirs I am filled with dread, until finally my eyes open to confirm it: I must live through yet another bleak day.

There is utterly nothing to look forward to. There is no joy, love, companionship. No goals or sense of accomplishment to hasten me from this point to the next agonizing realization that I have managed to live yet again.

Eat, they tell me. But I have no motivation to consume any more than my living has consumed of this world. Hunger only finds those with the drive to reach tomorrow, and as such does not find me. I grow ever thinner, and my skin becomes even tighter on my bones. Something stirs within me, but the depths of my emptiness silently move it away. In the mirror I count my ribs and watch as my hand falls across my cheekbone. I no longer recognize this stranger.

I watch my sister walk the hall and remark to myself of the weight she's gained. She is humbled now and forever. All of her pathological lies, her deception, her hatred have come to haunt her in a humiliating punishment. In her room still stands the picture of her with her arm upon the foul creater that worked with her to bestow this wretched heartbreak upon her. Even as the stench of her agony reaches my lungs, I fear that this punishment is a blessing I will never be allowed to suffer.

Having seen the countless alcohol canisters around the abode I have no mistaken speculations concerning the woman who was at one time my mother. She speaks to me once today to command that I watch that wretched television for the lottery numbers after she goes to sleep. It makes me want to slap her; it makes me wish that I could simply slip away and not wake. She wants only to know that she is loved, but I do not love this abomination that killed my mother. I never will.

Seeing her lacking the same things I lack, wanting the same thing I want, paints a terrifying portrait of my future. I can resolve not to become that abomination, but one does not always control his future any more than he controls his past.

Being content is wanting what you have, they will tell you. Food and shelter, I have. But what when the food rots in your mouth and the walls you try desperately to build around yourself cave in upon you? What fool would wish upon himself a soul as empathetic as I struggle to keep mine from being?

I am good at very little, and my life is good for very little. For longer than I can remember, I have wanted only for both my self and my life to end soon.

As I lie on the floor struggling to sleep, it came to me that I have barely lived one fourth of my life. It isn't even halfway over; it's nowhere near any end or conclusion. The thought didn't please me in any way. It didn't make me reflect that things change and I still had plenty of time to make a good life for myself. All it did was loose the dam holding back floods of despair.

Shuddering, wallowing in self-hatred until my entire body ached, I could do nothing but surrender yet again to sleep and pray, with all my might, that I would not be forced to wake again.

At one time I thought that if I desired my life to change, I could force it through my actions to do so. I realize, now, that sometimes the only, best thing we can do is wait and hope, no matter how often we must be destroyed and rebuilt.