He looks at the blank page, the cursor blinking more & more impatiently it seems as it sits there, unmoving, unwanted, unused, just hoping for someone to come along and remind it what it is there for.
He thinks a bit, feels a strange yet familiar empathy with the cursor, as if it were alive.
As if he was.
He knows that this is the one single thing that he can go to when he feels this way; when he’s so weary of the daily fight to live that over & done with sounds so inviting. What would it matter if he just let go?
What would it matter if he just stopped fighting?
The days have become harder. The support that was there isn’t anymore, and he can’t get what he needs to live. It wasn’t so much the money though without it nothing else would matter and there would be nothing left for *him* to give.,
but with every dollar came just a glimmer of light back into his heart. The shine from every gift of gold stopped by his spirit and there, it took hold.
Not afraid of death, the greatest terror is the weeks that would lead up to it – again watching his body shut down, smelling his own flesh rotting away… but he’s planned for this. Bottles of Morphine in his drawers & hidden away in tight containers, and half of any one would do the trick. Hell, he probably even has enough in the pill thing on his keychain to easily step off this train…
But no. This is just fantasy, something that needs to be written out from time to time to scrub this poison from his mind and go on with the day to day to day, and maybe just maybe, today…
everything will be, at the very least, just okay.