Sometimes the troubles just keep on pilin’, sometimes there never seems to be an end. Sometimes I feel like it’s all for nothing. Sometimes I think it’s all in my head.
The words were his own, he meant them all. He sang them to himself when he was happy, a way to bring himself down. Never really allowed himself happiness, always focused on the stress. One of those “I’ll find peace when it all falls into place” types. Always looking, always looked over.
One day I’ll stumble over my place in the world and curse it for being in my way. One day I’ll see everything for what it is and look the other way.
It never happened. Anything of any real concern, anyway. He lived as he so wanted: angry, depressed, and diseased by his own ill content with everything in this world. He was more aware than he would ever allow himself to know. More distracted with his own faults, flaws, and frustrations than anything else; they became a pass time, a hobby. Sometimes he looked forward to the voices, he embraced their shitty words about himself, about his world. They were his blanket.
Oh just take it all, the nothing I’ve got. Take the nothing and leave me to rot. Ain’t worth a damn, not a god damn thing. Take me from this world, something please set me free.
Eventually he died, his body cranked into a hole and forgotten. Set free. He got everything he wanted; total darkness. His emptiness was no longer a hollow voice heard when he conjured it up, now it was his only companion. His best friend. Emptied was his body, his mind. Emptiness his companion. Once the worms got to him, his coffin’d be empty, too.