The Lament of Self

Every day is dark. A storm raging with cessation never in site. Cloud cover is thick..... pervasive..... oppressive, and the occasional break is so rare, that it seems never to happen at all. Chains bind his wrists and ankles. He has lived in his shackles for so long, they no longer bleed. Thick callouses have built themselves up. He has grown accustomed to his slavery.

The man has grown deaf. He hears his tormentors, and complies with their demands, yet he does not hear himself. His heart reaches out to the mind, begging for respite, but the mind doesn't hear. The man has grown deaf.

Link by link, his chains grow. There are hands holding his chains, and every day, a new eager pair attach yet another hold over the man. To avoid madness, the man convinces himself that this is best for him. He is unwilling to realize a true potential, choosing to believe that this is his place. He doesn't know that within, he can break free. Freedom has become a foreign concept, undeserved. Such luxuries are held for the elite status holders. Better to keep eyes downcast and do as he is told.

The storm ever rages and the man has grown frail. His strength is failing, yet the burden of chains is growing. The man cannot bear such a burden for much longer. The weight is tearing apart his mind, destroying his body, and breaking his heart.

Darkness is thick and the storm is at it's fiercest. The man cannot draw breath. The chains are pulled as tight as ever. The hands realize the end is nigh. They pull at their prisoner with renewed vigor, intent on control until light leaves the eyes. The man cannot take it. His eyes beseech the source of his torment for mercy, yet non is granted. The mans eyes fill with tears as the finality of his end is understood. With a gasp and a shudder, the mans heart stops beating.

The hands give a final tug, ensuring that no further gain can be taken from their victim. He is done. The hands and their chains take leave of the cold man, in search of a new form of sustenance.