When I first opened my eyes, the world was a blissful neon light of brilliance, of beauty unabashed, unrestrained. Time, as it went by, rendered everything rusty, crestfallen, dusty, destroyed. I watched as the very bulbs that shone their creativity on to me and the masses gather layers upon layers of dust upon them. My eyes, they were once witnesses of awe-inspiring shit, they’re now clouded with desperate depression the likes of which only Dementors from Harry Potter bring. That what allured me, appealed to me, made me happy beyond reconciliation, it has now lost its spark , just like my neon bulbs, who’re emitting light still, but that light is melancholy. I am lethargic; too sloth-like in my behavior to get up and off my ass, grab a wipe and clean the dust.
There’s just so much dust I don’t know where to begin.
Perhaps the mirror? Where I ought to take a look at my face and try to recognize the man underneath the tufts of beardhair?
My voice is hoarse, my throat feels like pins have been poked in it and left there to rust. The rust gathers in there, jamming my oesophagal passage with pain.
I stand in front of the mirror, the looking glass reflecting a reality I am not wanting to see, and out comes a hand, a grisly claw with ooze, blood and mangled hair on it, and it grabs me. I scream, but the pain in my throat inhibits me. It’d be a lesser struggle to just go with the flow, however dementing it is.
It is my own hand that has grasped me. I try to laugh, but the pain is still there.
The hand moves of its own accord and slices at my throat, ending the pain, ending my life. I die, laying to rest in the dust, ashes to ashes, you know how it goes.