Status: I won't be writing much because this is what I write when I feel REALLY depressed.
The Woes of an Unkempt Bed
Weak
This morning the boy who brought me my bread asked if I was alright.
I simply couldn’t believe my ears. Such blasphemy could not be released from a boy, being in this treacherous army, to have lived through so much; so I affixed him with a stare that could have rivaled one of my father’s. Thinking so brings back the pains in my heart.
Such a stupid question. How could I ever be alright in this predicament?
On his way out he said sorry, not once but three times, twice in quick succession and one long after. It surprised me more than the original question. He was saying sorry for the world, not just himself.
When he left I began to cry again.
I simply couldn’t believe my ears. Such blasphemy could not be released from a boy, being in this treacherous army, to have lived through so much; so I affixed him with a stare that could have rivaled one of my father’s. Thinking so brings back the pains in my heart.
Such a stupid question. How could I ever be alright in this predicament?
On his way out he said sorry, not once but three times, twice in quick succession and one long after. It surprised me more than the original question. He was saying sorry for the world, not just himself.
When he left I began to cry again.