The Flood

He often wonders whether it’s strange to think, or rather feel, that one of the greatest kinds of pain is more of an experience than something physical. It’s the type of pain that goes beyond the dimensions he’s so used to, kind of like staring at a paragraph of writing for so long that the words seem to lift right off the page.

It’s the type of agony that runs right through his bones and leads right back to his heart, only to be pumped out again to repeat in a cycle and be recycled until it’s worn him out.

His bed and couch have been soaked through by the rain that falls under his roof, but he tries to find some solace whenever he closes his eyes, because then he can turn blind eyes to his sorrow, and hope that the choices he makes will eventually dry him out.

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