Failure is not a feeling: it's a taste, acidic, hot, sickening; an ache at the base of his skull. The frantic hum that permeates his whole body. The reflections in his womans eye's. In her fake smile at the end of the day.
The creeping grip of it in his cold hands. Know one knows the worst of it, but him. His glance in the mirror, the insecurity of knowing the truth. Nausea sweeps his mind. There is no way out, no way back.
Racing towards an abyss, his thoughts conjuring madly blowing winds, swirling endlessly in a black sky. Not stopping, yet seeing his choices so clearly, the pain of them numbing him. Wanting to shut out the ceasless litnay of needs. An altogether familiar tightness in his chest. Screaming, so silently.
All he can hear now, is the sound of his own thoughts. Trying to fill them, with faceless, nameless people. He see's them as angry and grey, gripping thier own thoughts, and lives, the way he is. Only, is he projecting? Was he simply seeing the world around him in a portrait of his own inner life?
Is he the failure? Or, is the rest of the world? Who is he? What is he? On the road, he watches the traffic going past. Fast, faster, everyone trying to get somewhere. At the grocery store, he looks at the rows and rows of consumer products, all of them saying buy me, buy me. I'll make you healthier, I'll make you richer, what does it all mean? Where is he going in life?
What is life? He is lost in his selfishness, lost in thinking and belieivng it's all about him, but he can't stop. Does the end really justify the means? Is there such a thing as acceptale causualtys? He no longer cares, his needs are greater.
His pain is greater than all else. Does he believe this? Yes, he believes this. He suffer's. No one else. Pride is the advent of fools, he was taught this, but his numbness prevents logical thinking. His heart, is cold, and dead. Dried up like the fall leaves that cover the ground. Crushed beneath the weight of failure.