This is a story about the man who refused to believe the truth of existence. The man who rejected faith, the man who did not believe in miracles. The man who wore the fakest of smiles. The man who lived a lie. The man who is no longer human. This story is about me and my melancholy. The solitary diary of my non-existent existence.
Today, is an ordinary day. A typical dark grey sky overbears the solemn and silent colorless earth. Stagnant, the rain drops fall one by one, subtly touching my dry, forlorn eyes dissipating the soul it contained within. The sound of vacant, flowing air and the emptiness of any existence. This is, and must be, the perfect world.
Driven by stagnancy, my sole disproportionate being traveled the perfect world. Each step was conveyed by the blankness of space, correcting the previous void the world miscreated. As I move forward, the world presented me with nothing. There was all but none; nothing else was left, to hear, see and feel.
This was happiness, I told myself. I could now be finally free from the truth that bound me since eternity. That restless vow of constant lies and inexistent truths can now be forgotten. I stood upon a particular piece of earth and prayed. Stillness overcame me and there was silence. Deafening, unshakable silence. I was then reminded me of my singularity.
A singularity of inexistence. A solitary error in the fabric of consciousness. I am that singularity, I am that void. That gaping hole who struck and ate each and every one of your inconsistencies. An epitome of apathy and acute deception. I am the inexistent, but for this reason; I am indestructible, and destroyed.
I finish my prayer with a solemn whisper. I faced the unforeseen horizon and imagined the non-conceivable future. Deplorable, I spoke everything my mind brought into being with the hope of my voice, echoing and coming back to greet me. I then disappeared, along with the world I truly loved. Of which, spoke the end of my eternity.