Status: Frozen.
Black Sheep Syndrome
There is no sweeter start
He would wake up every single day at the same time. He lived in a small, yet sufficiently comfortable apartment in a normal big city. He was a common office worker. He hated his job, didn’t earn much, and his life was pretty much meaningless in a general point of view.
“What is the motivation for me to keep this up?” he usually asked himself, in the mid of the tourbillion of thoughts that crossed his head as he walked trough that city.
As anyone might expect, when you’re thinking, the only answer you will receive is already created by yourself, unless you actually have double personality, which in no way was his case. The answer was, of course, none.
“Then, why don’t I end up this play?” he would ask himself a small time later.
“A play only ends with a reason, fool. And what would be yours? None. You’re a simple gear of the never ending machine of our society. The role you represent in this play is replaceable. Even your being is, Harold. No other Harold like you shall exist, yet, when you’re gone, the hole your disappearance has left in the society shall end up closing alone. You’re agnostic, and the Bible is against suicide, so you’re not going anywhere good. Basically no one would miss you. You’re not essentially sad; your problem is that you are you and no one else. You’re a robot, a being in an automatic life. Your sanity is simply kept by this deformed mass of thoughts, sewed together badly. Your sanity is stuck there, and one of these days, it shall all be destroyed. Why abandon your hope in the middle of the way and attempt suicide? Hold yourself to this illusion and do not let go, Harold. You know the beginning, that’s for sure, but hide the middle and the ending from yourself, Harold.” Another voice answered him, inside his mind. Another voice, however, undoubtedly him. A rather weird habit of his was to create voices in his head to answer his questions. Insanity? We’re all insane somehow. That was just his way to drive away loneliness. It was effective to some extent, making him believe it was not exactly a one man’s conversation and making him reflect more about his life. However, must we remember that he was still the one to create the answers to his questions. No matter how much voices he would create, how many people would he imagine talking to him, he would still be one in the darkness of his mind, confabulating to himself.
Harold was somehow a stereotype, yet, no men are equal and thus, Harold had his rather unique characteristics. He was a smart, dedicated man. Not only he was dedicated to his work, he was dedicated to understand. Simply understand. A verb without any complement. Understand what, then? Harold was indeed this interesting. He was not insane, however, robots are not insane. What was Harold then? He was physically a human, that is for sure. His appearance was rather common, with brown, simple eyes and brown tidy hair. Harold was not attractive, nor ugly. Harold was indeed a common human, yet a robot. His mind was his only unique point. However, the mind of us all is secluded, stored for us only and thus, not apparent for the others. Then, we come back to the same question. What was Harold? A defective robot? A problematic human being? Harold was, indeed, a mystery, stored on the most common of the boxes.
Harold was a temporary winter day in the middle of an upcoming summer, emphasizing the green of the trees, showing his existence and pointing out his uniqueness with his uniqueness itself. A temporary winter day which would later stand out when compared to the summer days that followed it, leading you to wonder what that was.
Harold was indeed peculiar. Disturbingly peculiar, as he would follow his life on, clinging to the hope he knew was not more than a sweet illusion.
Harold would extract people’s intentions and personalities trough their face and actions, like a child. Harold was, of course, no child. Some also say writers have those eyes. Harold was not a writer. Harold was Harold. And that was enough. Yet too much. Harold was a fantastical, yet poor actor in that play.
“What is the motivation for me to keep this up?” he usually asked himself, in the mid of the tourbillion of thoughts that crossed his head as he walked trough that city.
As anyone might expect, when you’re thinking, the only answer you will receive is already created by yourself, unless you actually have double personality, which in no way was his case. The answer was, of course, none.
“Then, why don’t I end up this play?” he would ask himself a small time later.
“A play only ends with a reason, fool. And what would be yours? None. You’re a simple gear of the never ending machine of our society. The role you represent in this play is replaceable. Even your being is, Harold. No other Harold like you shall exist, yet, when you’re gone, the hole your disappearance has left in the society shall end up closing alone. You’re agnostic, and the Bible is against suicide, so you’re not going anywhere good. Basically no one would miss you. You’re not essentially sad; your problem is that you are you and no one else. You’re a robot, a being in an automatic life. Your sanity is simply kept by this deformed mass of thoughts, sewed together badly. Your sanity is stuck there, and one of these days, it shall all be destroyed. Why abandon your hope in the middle of the way and attempt suicide? Hold yourself to this illusion and do not let go, Harold. You know the beginning, that’s for sure, but hide the middle and the ending from yourself, Harold.” Another voice answered him, inside his mind. Another voice, however, undoubtedly him. A rather weird habit of his was to create voices in his head to answer his questions. Insanity? We’re all insane somehow. That was just his way to drive away loneliness. It was effective to some extent, making him believe it was not exactly a one man’s conversation and making him reflect more about his life. However, must we remember that he was still the one to create the answers to his questions. No matter how much voices he would create, how many people would he imagine talking to him, he would still be one in the darkness of his mind, confabulating to himself.
Harold was somehow a stereotype, yet, no men are equal and thus, Harold had his rather unique characteristics. He was a smart, dedicated man. Not only he was dedicated to his work, he was dedicated to understand. Simply understand. A verb without any complement. Understand what, then? Harold was indeed this interesting. He was not insane, however, robots are not insane. What was Harold then? He was physically a human, that is for sure. His appearance was rather common, with brown, simple eyes and brown tidy hair. Harold was not attractive, nor ugly. Harold was indeed a common human, yet a robot. His mind was his only unique point. However, the mind of us all is secluded, stored for us only and thus, not apparent for the others. Then, we come back to the same question. What was Harold? A defective robot? A problematic human being? Harold was, indeed, a mystery, stored on the most common of the boxes.
Harold was a temporary winter day in the middle of an upcoming summer, emphasizing the green of the trees, showing his existence and pointing out his uniqueness with his uniqueness itself. A temporary winter day which would later stand out when compared to the summer days that followed it, leading you to wonder what that was.
Harold was indeed peculiar. Disturbingly peculiar, as he would follow his life on, clinging to the hope he knew was not more than a sweet illusion.
Harold would extract people’s intentions and personalities trough their face and actions, like a child. Harold was, of course, no child. Some also say writers have those eyes. Harold was not a writer. Harold was Harold. And that was enough. Yet too much. Harold was a fantastical, yet poor actor in that play.