Solitude

Pacing is a common sign of madness. That being said, pace is what he does. In his room. Procrastination is a sign of being unorganised. Pacing is what he did to procrastinate. Spending so much solitary time is very ill advised.

He cannot leave the space. There is no need to get dressed. Pants all day long. Laziness brings no joy. Things to do, things to do. The only sound he gets is his own voice when he coughs, or sneezes. And occasional boom of the pacing feet; storage and back to get basic food or water.

The silence is lingering and horrid. If you listen to the silence close enough, you can hear the lack of hearing. A faint ringing that doesn't exist is the sound of a million little voices whispering words against him. The closer he listens, the quieter they get as if taunting his very marrow. What do they say? “They hate me, they hate me” The repetitive thoughts hang from a noose. Rhythm in line with repetitive rocking.

The pain of the stinging eyes becomes normal and the eyelids stay static for longer. Disheveled is the hair on every part of his body and the sunlight beams through a hole in the roof. If anyone else is alive, they hate him as much as the ringing voices of nothing. The ringing, the ringing, the cringe and the sting.

The only thing missing is a distinct lack of smell in the rancid room of a jaded nose. He would count the days, if not for forgetting the existence of numbers.

What are they saying?

They hate me.