All The Humans that Didn't Know Love (Short Fiction)
I am always in awe of how death is portrayed in the news, especially when it’s far away. I don’t believe we need to constantly keep it on our minds, but it hovers over our spirits like the inspiration for a story that only I understand.
It’s not that others won’t understand it; they might also misinterpret it, and they might even continue with it. There is nothing short or long about the things we do to ourselves, as we remain stuck in the fervor of sanity. Yet, we are not sane; our sanity is not a given. We recklessly wage war against ourselves; nothing is more gripping than the battle between the two shores of our soul — one yearning to experience everything, the other desiring death. However, there’s nothing preventing us from death, a constant presence hanging over our heads.
There is much noise, splashing, and clashing, and it’s all quite embarrassing. But here I am, talking about my sad soul. I’d rather go out and mark my target tonight; killing gives me purpose. It releases me from the everyday fever, the frets, the worries about myself, and the family that depends on me to be a rock. I despise the idea of being a rock for anyone, let alone two dependents who look into my eyes with all their wants, needs, and ambitions. We call this family, but in the traditional sense, I call it a massacre of individual will.
