He was a troubled man, and he knew it. But it seemed the only problem he truly had was identifying what exactly was wrong. Why did he constantly feel like he had a hole in the middle of his chest? And why did it hurt so God damn much when the wind blew and tickled his insides like a knife?

He wished he knew.

And speaking of God, he wished he knew what that was too.

He didn’t understand how people woke up in the morning with the will to keep on going. What was so precious about this empty abyss that they were so afraid of saying goodbye to? Oh, he had so many questions. But you’d never hear him ask them. He wasn’t that type of person.

His type of person was the one that sits by your bedside as you slowly die, holding your hand, pretending to be strong for you when really, he was just jealous. He wanted to be in your position. He didn’t see how you deserved what he’d searched for so fervently. You don’t even want this. He, on the other hand, wanted – more than anything – the life sucked out of his fucking body. He wanted something to look forward to. But life had cursed him with health and a good genetic background.

“Fuck me,” he thought as he turned off the light. “Lets hope it rains tomorrow.”

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