If there has to be one word to sum up his life, there is nothing more precise than â€śsplinteredâ€ť.
He doesnâ€™t know how to live anymore. Everything in his life has been taken away from him. What do people call that? Murphyâ€™s law? Well. Damn Murphyâ€™s law!
He is a poet who used to be treated as a small celebrity. People pleaded him to write pieces for them. His works won contests. He had a successful relationship and a happy life.
Since when did things begin to change? He canâ€™t remember.
He sits in front of his computer, staring at a blank screen. He tries to call out the flow of creativity in his head, but nothing is there. All that he has are pieces. Fragments of words, crippled jigsaw puzzle set, surges of emotion without imagery. His hands are mechanically typing incomprehensible words onto the screen, forcing rigid rhymes in every line, distorting the syllables, assembling a crude construction that starkly resembles jagged monstrosity.
There are so much dark contents inside his head, but he canâ€™t manage to pour them out. He is incapacitated.
He looks at the picture frame on his desk. A photo of him holding hands with his ex. He was smiling back then. He tries to smile now, but he emotionally canâ€™t, even physically canâ€™t. The muscles arenâ€™t used for so long that they canâ€™t even function properly. He smashes his fist onto the table and cries out in agony. Why! What had he ever done wrong! His hand grabs onto the picture frame and tries to slam it onto the floor, but his hand isnâ€™t listening to his head and stops at the last second. He canâ€™t let go. He canâ€™t let go of the picture frame and all the memories that it carries along.
He puts the picture frame back onto the desk slowly and buries his head in his hands. He is sobbing. He canâ€™t help it. Itâ€™s all too much.
Then his thoughts drift to his friends; it only makes him even more painful. He looks around. Those he believes are so much more stupid are now having a better job and more wealthy. They are buying their houses and cars. They are so much more â€śpopularâ€ť now. No, stop, do you still think you are in middle school talking about popularity, he yells silently. But itâ€™s true. He doesnâ€™t want to admit it, but vanity is there. He is jealous of his friendsâ€™ big social network. He is jealous how people who once crowded around him now crowd around them.
And there are his other friends. Living a happy life. They have their girlfriends or boyfriends. Some even get married already. He canâ€™t stand their public displays of affection and all the pictures of them on social media. Why! Why are they so fortunate! Why must his relationship crumble and die! He had given in his all. He had tried, tried but failed. He had bloody anchored all his emotion on one single ship and that ship sank. An answer, or even a word, is all he needs to hear from her again. But she has disappeared. No. He doesnâ€™t deserve this. He feels the anger and jealousy burning in his veins. He knows he should feel happy for them. But why should he. He hates them. He hates how they have a better life. He hates how he has sunken into this bottomless whirlpool dragging him further and further down.
He tries to sleep. He canâ€™t. Insomnia tortures him. The peace he seeks in sleep is no where to be found, and even when he finally starts to dream, all that strikes him are the terrors of nightmare.
He springs up from his bed, panting. He stumbles towards the cabinet. Dozens and dozens of empty beer cans, wine bottles, vodka flasks. All empty, just like his internal world.
â€śDamn this world!â€ť he shouts. He canâ€™t take this pain anymore. He walks towards his safe and unlocks the door.
At least thereâ€™s one last thing that he can control. He can turn off his life switch.