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He treaded, unashamed and horrified in his own apathy. His only regret the lack thereof, a vicious cycle that wouldn’t let him go, that he wouldn’t let go of. An ouroboros of suffering caused by his incapability to feel guilt for his sins and yet feel guilt for the lack of it. A self magnifying tragedy, fueled by a guilt insufficient to prevent another mistake. Cascading cycles of failure, each defeat another weight dragging him down further into the depths of weakness.
How could he ever overcome such an unfulfillable task? The only victory was to exist as an eternal ballast, with defeat flooding in from a single mistake. Course set for failure from the beginning. Every single failure crumbling his determination one brick at a time. A little less strength, a little more tragedy.
This is not a cycle of rebirth, or renewal. It is a loop of decay, a self propagating rot. It is an unavoidable infection and an unfathomable depth, slowly conquering the body and mind. It is death of a sort, an inexorable entropy.
He hopes only for hope, none left for himself, carved away by the virus. He can only cast his gaze to others for scraps of diligence and hope, no longer naturally generated in his body, inanimate as it is, his marrow inert and void of determination. His diligence drained out his tear ducts, personality hollowed out, looking for anyone willing to pour themself out into his shell.
In the throes of the numbing oceans that churned in his mind, the waves drowning and muffling his thoughts, he paused contemplatively. A sudden gap in the rhythm of that same numbness running down his rotted face. Something about the narration he had produced seemed wrong, contradictory even, yet he had no energy left for lies or self deceptions. All the thoughts he could scrape together were honest and transparent, the type one could only produce when utterly wrung out.
Could he truly be void of hope if he could hope for more of it? Was there absolutely no chance for him? He listened attentively for a contradiction. Whispered denials from a once disregarded corner of his psyche echoed, suddenly swelling in intensity, crying out a hunger for escape that had never filled him before. Was there a way out of this hand-carved hell?
He turned and stared up from the lethargic ocean, and a pale moon loomed overheard, an ephemeral possibility rendered opaque by his very consideration of it. The surface of the bleached celestial body covered in ivory stone thorns and barbs. It hovered tantalizingly close, just out of grasp. Could he ever reach it here, dragged down by his transgressions and drowning in ice cold apathy?
The desire from the corner grew louder. It wouldn’t be ignored. It had a new foothold in his mind, and it couldn’t be quieted by the waves anymore. It emerged from the preceding whispers of hope and hunger, screaming at him to reach out and grasp the moon. Its barbs would never let him go, his blood would flow once again. It spoke of a rebirth unlike any of the ones before, defined by his own choice, dragging himself out of the hungry deep. An ascent and renewal of his own design, made more meaningful for every transgression that weighed him down, every brittle bone ravaged by the caustic disease.
But every movement keeping himself afloat was a trial in and of itself, if he reached out with his hand towards the possibility and failed to hold on, he would certainly drown. The singular scream had grown into a chorus now, a demand for change, for growing pains instead of stagnancy.
He outstretched his arm.