He was beginning to realise that things were out of his control, always had been and always will be. He had made so many plans for the future, seemingly carved in stone. But really he was a child drawing in the sand with a stick, his ideas, his hopes and his dreams were always going to be washed away by the tide.
His body was a road map of scars, but he had no idea where they’d lead him. Each one told a different story, some told multiple versions of the same story and some refused to utter their secrets. His arms were so heavily slashed up that it gave the impression his skin had dried and cracked like desert mud in the hot summer sun. Something was bleeding through, slipping through the cracks. It’d soon be here.
Could he really hold on? He’d held on for so damn long already. Everything felt far away. They all felt a lifetime away. It was someone else who’d set fire to their lives. It couldn’t have been him.
There was one last thing he could control. One thing in his life he could make sure turned out the way he intended.
Death would set him free. Or at the very least, everyone else.
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That’s the assumption! Death will set you free, but do you know this as fact? Death could actually be the continuation, the prolonging and vicious addiction to the cycle of suffering. Just say’n…