subjectstorm's Journal: More or Less Intelligent, depressing either way

The worn dirt path led farther into nowhere, away from anything John knew and away from the pain that consumed him.

It was a difficult life he lived, broken and suddenly meaningless.

When a thought surfaced that he did not like, he walked faster and hummed to himself. Sometimes the activity would distract him; often it did not. The memories would come eventually, breaking through the dam of his subconscious in streams and rivulets, until at last he was overcome and swept away in the flood of them.

John blinked to clear his vision, choked back a sob. It was strange to be the object of hatred and scorn, especially when those feelings began and ended with him. He vaguely hoped, when he was not concentrating on the mundane tasks of survival and walking, that he would die out here. Death was the final answer to all of his problems, a justice he welcomed, a way to rejoin those he had put away from himself with the best of intentions. But he couldn't take his own life. It was beyond him to do that.

Rain fell softly from the grey skies above him in a fine mist. Though he wore a hooded jacket and could have sheltered himself, john did nothing to stop himself from becoming wet. He walked, following the path to its conclusion, not caring where or what that would be. A bird sang out from a broad-leaved and beautiful oak beside the path. Its song was poignant and empty, as if it mourned for all that he had lost.

John cried soundlessly, and kept walking.