Words no one will read

Flygohr
Flygohr
Oct 21 · 3 min read
PAPER WINGS by Flygohr

The hot, summer air didn’t match that cold and sad drizzle, with the sky collapsing on itself, creaking.
A drop hit the embers of his cigarette, turning it off. He didn’t have a lighter.
He turned to the sky, running a hand through his dirty hair. To remove them from his eyes. The clouds were thickening at the horizon, the black ones already crossed by lightning.

It was close. The wind was howling stronger.
He wasn’t worried at all. But he pulled down his hoodie sleeves anyway, shuddering.
What the fuck was he doing there, he didn’t know. He had arrived, but he did not remember where he had started.
He looked back, just paths and trees. And the red sunset. He went towards the night, which was approaching. As if it was inviting him.
As if he needed an invitation.

The day had bored him. The day could not contain other liars besides himself.
Because the light lies, the light deceives, the light attracts. The light consumes.
Like him. He who had eyes that burned, with anger and resentment, and that could even incinerate the coming storm. He who walked and walked and who looked so much like that child. The stupid one.

Only that maybe it wasn’t so stupid. He was going to the abyss without even remembering who he was before. Without knowing what else was there, and that’s it. Because maybe he didn’t give a shit about light. In the light they could see him. They could see his colors. On enough light, they could have even saw his backpack, of memories and thoughts and desires and vulnerabilities. And that would have been fine. But he was pissed, he didn’t want the bunch of keys to be seen anymore by anyone. His keys, to the many homes and the many places he was leaving forever. His beautiful bunch of people’s trust, and then all those pieces of someone else’s heart. He no longer wanted his shoes to worn out by running after people.

He just didn’t want them to see him anymore.
The sky roared, and the storm came. The wind whistled as he trudged toward the abyss.
Because that was where he was going. He would have crumpled into his own pain, but at least he would have seen what few have the courage to see. He would finally fall without being able to stand up again, in the face of all those assholes who struggled to stay afloat.

Because the darkness loved him, because we arrive at a certain point where neither victories nor defeats exist anymore. Because he was like light, he had deceived, attracted, consumed. He had lied. It had cost him. Dear. And now, perhaps, it was time to pay for them all.

Because that wasn’t a fucking diary.
Nor a fucking biography.
That was his life.
Not a movie, not a fiction book.
But a prison.
And the black swallowed him, in the eye of the storm, in the midst of debris and sheets of paper with his words written on it. Those words that no one would ever read.

Flygohr

Written by

Male, 24, Italy. Freelance comic book artist and illustrator. Unapologetic troublemaker. Extreme coffee evangelist. Superhero.

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