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| this parasite inside |
| there was something inside him that thrived on chaos, that could only look down. it revelled in disasters because it saw them as the inevitable conclusion of things. sometimes it made him sick. it kept him up at night, whispering in his ear, showing him all of the ways everything he loved could fall. often it eclipsed even the warm afternoon sun, leaving him in the dark shadow of every terrible possibility while others went on about their business, blithely unaware. it was hard to separate this thing's influence from logic because sometimes it was right, and time was always on its side; that which did not crumble today would probably do so tomorrow or the next day, or the next. it made no difference. as such, when the worst did happen, it was often a relief, as the agonizing uncertainty that preceded it was over. thus there was little to look forward to, save for quiet oblivion, a silent place far away from all things, where passing frivolties like love and hope did not intrude with their false promises and fickle departures. it was an awful thing, this parasite inside him. he hoped it would leave but feared it was too late, that it was too inextricably intertwined with the most fundamental aspects of his spirit for him to ever truly free himself from its grasp and recover all the joys and wonders which for so long he had been denied. |