Hollow To The Brim

A young man stands on a balcony on a cold night. Another man offers him a cigarette. He calmly accepts. He lights it and inhales, not understanding why, only knowing that it brings him a moment of peace. But that moment is fleeting, disappearing in a flick of ashes and a puff of smoke. Now the young man has nothing. He is left to fall back into the raging storm of emotions that is his mind, alone in a crowd of people.

Intoxicated, he trudges down the steps and out onto the street. He has no plan, no idea where he's going, or where he'll end up. He's searching for something, but for what, he may never know. All he wants is to escape It. It. The ever-present feeling of all-consuming nothing. His life is hollow. He's been robbed of its meaning, and has been frantically searching for it ever since. But where to begin? The world is so big...he's just one man.

The nighttime is the worst for him. He tosses and turns, consumed by the void. His head spins with thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. He begs for sleep to come, but his plea falls upon deaf ears. He is doomed to lie awake, listening to his music, that conduit to his soul, until finally, so very early in the morning...he falls asleep. But now that sleep has taken him, he is unwilling to leave its embrace. He is so very tired and his room is his sanctuary. What motivation does he have to leave it? His obligations slowly fall by the wayside as he continues his search for that lost meaning. He'll try anything to find it.

Every day he skates by. It's so pointless. It's so futile. He only wants the weekend to come so he can hide from it all. But even the weekend does not protect him from some things. He knows what nearly every weekend will almost certainly also bring. The thoughts spread from his brain through his blood, burning mercilessly. Thoughts of days. He knows not if these days were better for him or if they were worse, only that they had meaning, and to him, that's all that matters. He can't let them go, no matter how much he knows he should, because they are all he has.

What has he become? Not able to please, he can only disappoint. Failure, failure, failure. Can he do nothing right? Why is he such a fool? It's small wonder he is so very alone. He's grown so cold. The line has become blurred for him, and as he stumbles along it, he rarely knows which side he is on, or what direction he is headed. But he stumbles on.

What will he do when he once more grasps the meaning, if he indeed ever does? What then will he pursue? Will he be satisfied, or is he doomed to forever search? In finding meaning, will he also lose meaning? Must he always live like this, hopelessly lost and confused? Perhaps he'll never understand. Perhaps he shall always be consumed by It.

-Brian