• Pick.
    Pick.
    Pick.
    It sweeps over him again; this compulsion attacking him in a tidal wave of mindless need, his guilty habit and his senseless release. He knows it isn’t healthy and he knows it isn’t normal in this world of shallow supremacy and yet he does it anyway, it’s what makes him different and he will cling to that difference as he takes a stand against what is normal and accepted.

    That doesn’t stop them though. He knows people notice him doing it, it’s gotten to the point where they call him out on it just for the reaction he gives. They laugh when he walks away and that is what hurts him the most; he’s been long used to the mindless pain and petty suffering that people inflict on each other but it still hits him deep. It feels worse when he realizes that even those people he call’s friends do it, laugh and pick at him behind his back only to claim their innocence when he calls them out on it. They have the audacity to act innocent, “it wasn’t us” they cry, and cosy up to him only to snigger once more when it seems they have appeased him enough. Their attacks never cease, they simply hide for a while and ambush him when he thinks that it’s safe for him to be himself around people once more.

    Does he want to be like them anyway? Not really. He has brief moments of connection, worrying over an upcoming test or commenting on the state of the kids young around them, but those moments are soon enough snatched away to be once more replaced by the wary quiet and quiet observance that he is used to.
    In his social isolation he turns to his addictions. His addictions are not drug or alcohol related, nor are they gambling related, but they are as serious in the fact that they draw him deeper and deeper into their enchanting embrace. He is addicted to the written word, both his own and those of others, and the glowing wiles of technology in all their glory, but most of all he is addicted to the freedom it brings when he sinks into one of these little worlds. That kind of freedom was what was most addicting to him; the ability to travel anywhere and everywhere without even leaving his room; to talk with people he doesn’t know, and who don’t know him or what he does, but are willing to talk to him all the same; the freedom to delve into any number of mind-bendingly odd videos that the internet is so well known for these days. It’s his magic hiding place, somewhere for him to hole away and lick his wounds after a horrid day.

    As he grows older his distrust and dislike of the world increases, it would be alarming if not for the fact he’s already surrendered himself to the inevitability of never being socially accepted by others. His habit grows worse too, they say it’s stress. Anxiety. Depression. They say he needs to be medicated but he knows what those pills do. They make you go off your head more than the stress ever did. It wouldn’t help anyway, it’s a part of him now and he couldn’t see a way for it to stop.
    It’s his dirty little secret. His not-a-secret secret. He hates it, himself, the sick rush it gives him. And yet he loves it, the relief it give him from the world, from himself, from the piles of lies that make up his life. He’s drowning, but anyone who offers their hand to help him retracts it soon enough.

    They’re disgusted, they should be. He’s disgusting. He’s almost non-human in his own mind, a creature of action and dull emotion. He doesn’t know why he’s still here; in this town, in the world or even still in existence. He doesn’t have passion for anything anymore. Nothing necessary at least.
    he;s thought about ending it, everyone does at some point right? Maybe. Or maybe that’s just another way he isn’t like other people. maybe it’s not so good being so different if all it leads to is pain and misery. Is that all that life is? Pain, misery and suffering in a ever present cycle. Even if they aren’t there they are and that is what makes it worse, when they hide and wait for you to pull yourself up out of the self-hating miasma and then knock you right back down once you think you’ll be ok.
    Even if it isn’t you, it’s always someone. There is always someone that gets a kick out of things like that. Is he like that? Probably. Maybe. He doesn’t even know anymore. He doesn’t really care anymore either. There is no point in it.

    His habit is still there, it’s his only companion now. It’s the only thing that is there with him; always there, trying to help, only to make things worse. He’s old enough to know that all these years of habit have not had any positive effects. It’s not worth it, but it’s so good. That sick rush is still the same, it’s still there and eager to be of service. It’s more of a dependence now.
    The weight of life and work are dragging him down. It’s what’s stopping him from meeting people now, long hours and low pay. Even survival is hard now, is it worth it? Probably not. Why does he still linger? even he doesn’t know anymore, he’s long past caring.
    The weights of life are there, always tugging at him. They’re pulling him in all sorts of directions; work, food, sleep, work, long nights, should he go out for a drink? Can he afford it? Should he escape? Would it be worth it? What would happen next? Would there even be anything after this? Would it still hurt?

    All his fears compounded on him, he wasn’t buoyed by them and yet they were not dragging him further into his misery. They were preventing him from taking that step, or pulling that trigger. He was scared. It was odd for him, feeling like this after such numbness for so long. Was it a good thing? No. Yes. He didn’t know. It was a step in the right direction, having feelings such as these again.
    He was old now. Frail. Scared. Clear.
    After so long he’s finally thinking clearly. He guessed it was true when people talked about the wisdom of the old. It was a good thing. He was finally free from all that. It was good. There were no regrets. There was still fear but there was not, it was natural.
    A sound came from his lips. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard it or not, it might have just been a figment of his imagination, but it was needed.