The Enemy Within

He grants access to no one.

A ball of perpetual suffering.

He’s nonchalant, partly oblivious to the outside world. He tells himself he’s worth nothing. He’s drowning but still breathing. Like he’s in this glass dome watching everyone walking around, going by their lives.

Pretending to be a solid agglomeration of human parts and organs, yet he’s as fickle as a mid-summer rusted swing set.

Or maybe he’s not pretending. He knows how vulnerable he is.

Wings.

That’s all what his brain is swarming with: a beautifully crafted set of wings with pale yellow plumage and shimmering golden scapulars. They shone like a thousand suns confined in a geodesic dome made of mirrors. How dilated can human pupils get when confronted with such dazzling beauty.

But all of a sudden, the suns were extinguished. One by one, like candles being pinched out by raucous toddlers, the suns wore off of existence.

Darkness prevails.

All his hopes and dreams compressed into smoke and left for the universe to scatter.

He grabs his knees a little tighter.

He shrinks while the universe expands.

Another spec in the space-time continuum.