Achtung, unausgereiftes Englisch.
It rained.
The little drops of water tapped against the window, muffled by the glass separating his hand and the soothing state of a crying world.
His chest felt somewhat tight, his breath barely remarkable unsteady as he just watched the water washing away the outside world. He felt strangely disconnected, unattached.
Even though he couldn’t bring himself to figure out why, at all.
He wasn’t sure if he was sad or lonely, he wasn’t even sure if he felt at all.
Everything was so numb and distant.
That’s how a snowman in a snow globe must feel, he thought to himself, seeing the world in a blur, not able to hear or feel what was happening on the outside of his little, glass-covered universe where nothing really mattered, since time simply didn’t exist.
He asked himself if this probably made the snowman feel sad, if he longed to go to this mysterious place on the other side. Did he felt safe and protected in there? Or was it more like a cage, chaining him up and cursing him to never experience anything other than this?
On the other hand, a snowman in a snow globe probably didn’t feel at all.
As he realized where his thoughts had been gone for the past few minutes he almost felt embarrassed,
it truly wasn’t like him to fantasize about such stupid things.
Or was it?
He didn’t know.
What time was it?
Did that even matter?
His gaze remained glued to the window, the traces the raindrops painted on the pane.
Some of them went straight from the top to the bottom, not even wavering an inch in their way, while others changed their course often, drawing unsteady lines without any colors.
He felt a bit like laughing as he observed a few drops crashing into the traces of others, giving up on finding their way down to the windowsill on their own.
It was easier that way, wasn’t it?
Shutting down your own mind and just follow blindly whatever path the person before you had punched through.
Not thinking about how you feel uncomfortable as hell on this street, not opening your eyes, because you somehow know that when you catch even the slightest glimpse of the endless street going from your feet straight to the horizon where you eyes no longer could follow, you’ll burst down into tears because it just isn’t right.
Was that truly what life was about?
Never doubting anything, just endure and shutting everything down until you were a mere robot following the program engraved in your head?
Maybe it was.
His eyes fell from the window to his lap where he had clenched his hands into tight fists. As he relaxed them for a bit he saw the half-moon-shaped imprints on his palms, on a few places even deep enough to draw a little bit of blood.
Oh.
So he was angry?
Maybe because of all that stupid nonsense he had thought about, snowmen with no feelings and raindrops symbolizing his way of life.
What the hell?
Maybe he should stand up and go to the kitchen, make some tea or snatch one of the cookies they had brought over this morning. Just doing something to distract himself from falling any deeper into the void of his soul, not able to feel anything.
But he couldn’t bring himself to move, not even a bit.
He just sat there; legs crossed, hands now pressed flat against ankles, eyes back again directed at the window.
It was like all the weight of the world pressed him down onto the niche he was placed in.
But what even was the weight of the world?
Dying children, extincting animals or flowers? Was it war and famine and natural disasters happening out there? The old man from the apartment above who lay dying in a hospital bed right now? A boy, mere eight years old, hiding in a cupboard from the fists of his father or mother?
Was it the teenage girl suffering with dysphoria every day, desperately clawing at her breasts, hoping they’d just fall off? Were it the tears from the father that just had buried his child, or the numb disbelief of the car driver that had ended the life of said child?
What did they mean, all those authors and poets and every person ever that had wrote about “the weight of the world”?
Was it all the pain and suffering from people across the globe?
He stared unfocused at the now darkening sky outside; feeling as if his soul had somehow dropped out of his body. He still felt the hard wood on his legs and the slight headache he had since midday, but it was like there was another copy of him, a holograph right beside his true self, bearing all his feelings and his awareness.
Ah.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe the weight of the world was nothing more or less than the dark fog wrapping around his very being, detaining him to this place by the window.
This feeling like he’d glitched out of himself.
Maybe the weight of the world was no real weight.
Just a feeling of not feeling at all.
Just this.
And ever so slowly, like the rain outside in a world with normal people, he gave in into the nothingness of it.
The nothingness of everything.
It rained.
The little drops of water tapped against the window, muffled by the glass separating his hand and the soothing state of a crying world.
His chest felt somewhat tight, his breath barely remarkable unsteady as he just watched the water washing away the outside world. He felt strangely disconnected, unattached.
Even though he couldn’t bring himself to figure out why, at all.
He wasn’t sure if he was sad or lonely, he wasn’t even sure if he felt at all.
Everything was so numb and distant.
That’s how a snowman in a snow globe must feel, he thought to himself, seeing the world in a blur, not able to hear or feel what was happening on the outside of his little, glass-covered universe where nothing really mattered, since time simply didn’t exist.
He asked himself if this probably made the snowman feel sad, if he longed to go to this mysterious place on the other side. Did he felt safe and protected in there? Or was it more like a cage, chaining him up and cursing him to never experience anything other than this?
On the other hand, a snowman in a snow globe probably didn’t feel at all.
As he realized where his thoughts had been gone for the past few minutes he almost felt embarrassed,
it truly wasn’t like him to fantasize about such stupid things.
Or was it?
He didn’t know.
What time was it?
Did that even matter?
His gaze remained glued to the window, the traces the raindrops painted on the pane.
Some of them went straight from the top to the bottom, not even wavering an inch in their way, while others changed their course often, drawing unsteady lines without any colors.
He felt a bit like laughing as he observed a few drops crashing into the traces of others, giving up on finding their way down to the windowsill on their own.
It was easier that way, wasn’t it?
Shutting down your own mind and just follow blindly whatever path the person before you had punched through.
Not thinking about how you feel uncomfortable as hell on this street, not opening your eyes, because you somehow know that when you catch even the slightest glimpse of the endless street going from your feet straight to the horizon where you eyes no longer could follow, you’ll burst down into tears because it just isn’t right.
Was that truly what life was about?
Never doubting anything, just endure and shutting everything down until you were a mere robot following the program engraved in your head?
Maybe it was.
His eyes fell from the window to his lap where he had clenched his hands into tight fists. As he relaxed them for a bit he saw the half-moon-shaped imprints on his palms, on a few places even deep enough to draw a little bit of blood.
Oh.
So he was angry?
Maybe because of all that stupid nonsense he had thought about, snowmen with no feelings and raindrops symbolizing his way of life.
What the hell?
Maybe he should stand up and go to the kitchen, make some tea or snatch one of the cookies they had brought over this morning. Just doing something to distract himself from falling any deeper into the void of his soul, not able to feel anything.
But he couldn’t bring himself to move, not even a bit.
He just sat there; legs crossed, hands now pressed flat against ankles, eyes back again directed at the window.
It was like all the weight of the world pressed him down onto the niche he was placed in.
But what even was the weight of the world?
Dying children, extincting animals or flowers? Was it war and famine and natural disasters happening out there? The old man from the apartment above who lay dying in a hospital bed right now? A boy, mere eight years old, hiding in a cupboard from the fists of his father or mother?
Was it the teenage girl suffering with dysphoria every day, desperately clawing at her breasts, hoping they’d just fall off? Were it the tears from the father that just had buried his child, or the numb disbelief of the car driver that had ended the life of said child?
What did they mean, all those authors and poets and every person ever that had wrote about “the weight of the world”?
Was it all the pain and suffering from people across the globe?
He stared unfocused at the now darkening sky outside; feeling as if his soul had somehow dropped out of his body. He still felt the hard wood on his legs and the slight headache he had since midday, but it was like there was another copy of him, a holograph right beside his true self, bearing all his feelings and his awareness.
Ah.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe the weight of the world was nothing more or less than the dark fog wrapping around his very being, detaining him to this place by the window.
This feeling like he’d glitched out of himself.
Maybe the weight of the world was no real weight.
Just a feeling of not feeling at all.
Just this.
And ever so slowly, like the rain outside in a world with normal people, he gave in into the nothingness of it.
The nothingness of everything.
It rained.
