Any idea how this story ends?

The story of a man

I know a man. His face seems pulled and tense, like he’s running on a spinning track in the strongest winds. So I approach with tact, suggest that he should relax; but he’s always moving much too fast. Too fast...

He tells me the story, but no one listens that long. When he cries his lungs out, he breathes in indifference. When he asks for answers, he gets more questions. Thus he asked no question, so he got no lie.

He'd seen it happen to a couple of friends, but he never thought he'd habit. Not her. That morning, he woke up and felt like running, running as far he could, running away from that invisible hand that was dragging him down, keeping him low, holding his breath away from the surface, away from home. Hitting him in the face, twisting his thoughts and burning his place; treading him lower, painfully lower; hiding the sun from his eyes, while no tear dares to burst; blowing up the rest in his face; restless, inhabited by a one-sided mission: holding him away, lifting his heart up, setting him to lose. Down. Again. Loser.

Not this time he thought. So he ran. As long as he could; got up out of their way. He ran until he could not breathe anymore, until he could not stand anymore, until his crooked heart could not feel anymore; for his eyes went blind and he could not see her anymore. When he made it to the ocean, he realized what went wrong...

She’d reached his swelling heart, in thin air.

An empty shell seems so easy to crack

Seeds of poisonous insignificance had surreptitiously blossomed in his once-full-of-life veins, filling the wells that used to keep him strong during past droughts, sifting through each of his beliefs, settling for an undecided lease on life. Closing, moving sideways, further than ever from his true. His one. His only one.

He had never felt so emptied before. Wandering on the sidewalks of their life, not looking for any clue; abandoned to a pointless fate. The house. He stumbled on the shadows of the crumbling walls surrounding the place, sending shades of war on what was left of his faith.

Stripped and stabbed by a faceless man, he’d already reached the other side. Too late. Too far. Like white doves in his eyes, she’d taken away what he had left to survive. Faithless. Faithful. Breathless. Too late for trade backs. He was alive but felt absolutely nothing.

“Be sound” she’d said, “I need you.” How could such nice words blunt so deeply?
Twisted nerves moved his limbs up and down, keeping him running. But not breathing. Spinning thoughts kept his brain working in and out. But not flowing. Passing time kept him alive day in and day out. But not living... Slowly was he running out of himself, pouring out over his misery, not for anybody, not for any cause, not towards any goal. Just against himself. Forced to endure what he could not forgive.

Heavy breath, awakened regrets, he doesn’t feel like home anymore but still holds the pain. Gardens and rivers, they're all but fake. Oceans and waves, even flow through his hair. Life or death, in this side of the room, becomes useless matter.

So he spilled out. Out of the present, out of time, sifting through the concrete, with a hope he’d soon forget, as he searched deep in the blue what drove him back into the black. Drifting away, he had the feeling there would soon be parting ways. In himself. Within himself. Out of himself. Away from her. Like one.

All or None

She had said from afar that she would rather see other people; spent too much time lying to herself.

He thought, “Well, look around.”

So he started to think that this hopeless situation was what he was trying to achieve.

And she said she was confused; she didn’t believe in him anymore, she had to think about her own now.

He thought, “Darling, join the club.” Twenty three years old, mid-life crisis… Look at yourself. Nowadays, it hits you when you’re young.

He’d replied. She fired. He surrendered… The process had already started. At least it happened fast. Not the first time he thought, the hardest though.

I swear he died, inside. That night he was just a dead man walking. He contemplated an awful thing. I hate to admit it. But he’s still here.

He’s still here, waiting, in hiding. He can’t see. He just stares. Waiting. In hiding. For someone to help him.

Walking on his own, with thoughts he couldn’t help thinking, while in the past slowly sinking, he called back on all those yesteryears, which seemed closer then than any of his journeys out of sight, on the other side, where the grass is forever dark.

Doesn't it make much more sense to live in a present tense?

He already knows it's nothing as it seems but the little that he needs is home... So he looks above. He looks under. He looks everywhere around her. All five horizons keep revolving around her soul.

She once believed in every story he had to tell until the day she stiffened and took the other side, escaping from their shared prison cell, while leaving him inside the well. She wouldn’t want him, nor feed him, after he’d flown away into the sun and burnt his wings inside her womb. If only she knew now what she knew then.

So he shed everything that was left, to wash it all away, to come back, back to the clean form, back to the pure form, back to that state of love and trust. Open! Open!!! He waited, strayed, never knew how long forever took...

At about a quarter to ten

He's aware they were all but stones... And her light made them stars... Released by the little that he sees, it still is nothing he concedes. Each inch between them became light years then, trust binding and both apart. How could she be taken away from this quest they were taking on together, to be happy and true, like ONE…?

Never told me what brought him back; he just whole-heartedly felt he'd rather starve than eat her bread; would rather run but couldn’t walk... It was all or none. Her or alone. Life must go on.
Still, questions. Any idea on how this life ends? Checked out your hands and studied the lines? Is she getting something out of this all-encompassing trip? He could indeed spend his time alone, dreaming up a new self for himself, redigesting past regrets. Or come to terms and realize that he was the only one who could forgive himself.

They say some words when spoken can’t be taken back. Fatal. But he’s still the only one who can’t forgive himself. Wouldn’t it make much more sense to live in a present tense?

Only spring could breakisfall

Now that he’d understood feelings and he’d understood words, he was home, realizing it was emptier than ever before, sipping his two thoughts left into the blue. He would never be the same again. He had scratches all over his arms, one for each day since he fell apart. It was her. It was her who made his small beliefs true; who made his small piece of life blue, who’d shaped his hometown into a masterpiece, who made sense out of insignificance. It was her for whom he spontaneously woke up every morning since her innocent letter nailed him up fifteen years before. Out of sight.

It’s like his thoughts are too big for his size. He’s so small. So small. How can this trouble seem so big? So big.

...

The palms in the breeze still blow green; the waves in the sea are still absolute blue; the moon in the dark still glows perfect white. But the horror, every single thing he sees reminds him of her. He never thought he’d curse the day he trusted her, until she’d have gone and wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t care. How could so much fade so fast?

So he rubs his eyes and imagines himself in a month or twelve, having a drink, laughing at some stupid joke or some useless thing… He can see himself stopping short, drifting again out of the present, out of himself, sucked by the end of his toes and pulled out deep.

There he is, standing in a green field, amidst white stones and blue birds, looking above his shoulder for a familiar face between clods. In the distance, there is one, off on her own, lying in the grass. He stops, kneels, brushes her hair. His new home.

He’s alive but feels absolutely nothing.

And he pictures a sober awakening, a re-entry into this little bar scene, sipping his glass of water, until the ice hits his lip and his weak will freezes; order another round of cheap drinks. Here we go.

Only spring would break his fall...

That’s it for now, I’ve never been too good at happy endings. Sorry.

H.H.H.H.H

Thanks Ed.