Worth
Monday morning blues and all he does is sip on his coffee reading the latest news, scrolling the feed with such a dreadful look on his face, it would be hard to spot him among scores of lifeless bodies. In this monotonous operation, his figure suddenly stopped mid-air breaking the tempo of his movement.
100 civilians, including 20 children, killed in worst Syria shelling since 2015. read the newspaper. This time it was different, his eyes didn't sadden or he didn't take deep breaths thinking. This time he smirked and continued his reading.
He always spent hours thinking about what fate could have bestowed such fancy livelihood to some and simply empty dreams to others. But this fierce discussion that he always pulled himself into did no good to him. The answer was seemingly non-existent and this absence had made him feel shallow throughout.
But what could he do? Thinking about it and mourning for deaths of the unknown would neither bring them back nor would it alter his lifestyle outside of his little room. The facade that he wore perfectly was the only way he managed to keep hidden the sufferings of a few hundred.
Nothing that he read changed the way he laughed with his friends or the way he cracked dark jokes or the way he put his opinions forward. He was cold and blunt. Or that's what he liked calling himself. But he knew himself well, he knew the way he was but couldn't figure out the why behind it. He'd shed tears for little children who lost their innocence before time. He'd stab himself in the chest whenever he sees a hungry pauper go unnoticed. He'd carry the burden of guilt when he saw small dogs and cats waiting to be loved. But he was cold and blunt. He wouldn't give in to his pernicious thoughts cause he knew it would mean the end of him.
And so he lived sipping coffee, trying to figure out the stature of each life. Trying to understand why each life was said to be unique among seven billion souls. Trying to deduce why a few deserved death while life wasn't ever fully lived by man. Trying to reason the history out, he thought it would make a better future. Trying to infer why man lived and what was his worth on this tiny-huge ball of life. Trying to get to somewhere with himself. Trying to find his worth.
Nothing that he read changed the way he laughed with his friends or the way he cracked dark jokes or the way he put his opinions forward. He was cold and blunt. Or that's what he liked calling himself. But he knew himself well, he knew the way he was but couldn't figure out the why behind it. He'd shed tears for little children who lost their innocence before time. He'd stab himself in the chest whenever he sees a hungry pauper go unnoticed. He'd carry the burden of guilt when he saw small dogs and cats waiting to be loved. But he was cold and blunt. He wouldn't give in to his pernicious thoughts cause he knew it would mean the end of him.
And so he lived sipping coffee, trying to figure out the stature of each life. Trying to understand why each life was said to be unique among seven billion souls. Trying to deduce why a few deserved death while life wasn't ever fully lived by man. Trying to reason the history out, he thought it would make a better future. Trying to infer why man lived and what was his worth on this tiny-huge ball of life. Trying to get to somewhere with himself. Trying to find his worth.
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