Half-life

So, uh, this one I wrote at the library when I was really bored and didn't want to do anything else. A few of you have already seen it, but I corrected all the mistakes that I could spot, and I made a few minor changes.
But anyhow, here it is, in all its . . . whatever it is.


What is it like?

Often I wondered that. What is it like to live a life with only half of your soul, half of your heart? How does it feel to go from one day to the next, knowing that half of you is dead, never to come back, never to return to you? So many, many times I wondered this.

Now I know.

But oh, how I wish I did not.

It cannot be called life, this state, for no life is so cruel and pain-ridden.

I know only sorrow; sorrow and the memory of joy, the memory of laughter, of happiness.

Of love.

To remember these things is far too painful, so I lock up these memories, these reminiscings of times when I was whole. I lock them deep in my heart, so that nothing can touch them and bring me yet more pain.

I cannot remember how to laugh.

Oh, I still know the feeling of it, and I know how it should be done, but I cannot remember how. I cannot bring myself to utter that joyous sound. Not even a mockery of laughter can escape my lips, though seldom do I try. I have no reason for joy or laughter, existing as a half being, an empty shell, the merest shadow of the man I once was. But I am no longer him, for I cannot regain what I lost.

There was a time—a time so long ago—that I strode through this town, confident in my purpose, knowing that I was nigh unbeatable. My head was held high, my eyes flashed, and I smiled and I laughed at the world, and the world laughed with me.

I cannot remember the last time I smiled.

What happened to those days when I was brash and bold, when people looked at me with awe and admiration in their eyes. They used to cheer when I walked by, and I would mingle with the crowds, clasping hands and sharing jokes, filled with the bright, shining hope that was instilled in the people wherever I went.

Now when the people see me, they look at me with pity and sorrow in their eyes. They half-murmur words of apology, of sadness, and they often avoid me. Small children regard me with fear, while older children mock me until their mothers silence them, whispering to them as they glance towards me, eyes filled with sorrow. They whisper to their children that they do not know my pain.

How long ago were those days that were filled with joy and gladness? Was it many long years ago, or only a few seasons past?

No. No, they do not know my pain. Who can ever truly understand my pain, understand the sorrow that fills me until nothing else can be noticed? None will ever look at me and know how I have sunk so low, how it is that I die even as I live, that my heart and soul continue to crumble. No one can know. No, indeed. They can never know.

The nights and days are no longer discernible to me. Time means nothing. Everything is a sea of grim, never-ending pain. It dulls my senses and I am aware of little else. Truly, I do not know how it is that I survive from day to day. Dimly, through my pain, I am aware that I would be dead if left to my own devices. I can only assume that the townsfolk take care of me. I have very little knowledge of it though, for the times when I clearly comprehend the world around me are few and far, far between. My sea of pain and grief takes my all from me. There is little else I can know.

It cannot be called life, this state, for no life can be so hard.

Sometimes it is a struggle to breathe. I feel as if I have no control over myself, and my body seizes up, locking my lungs so breath cannot enter my body. I feel no exceptional pain when this happens. It is just one more river of hardship flowing into my sea of pain. One more sorrow in my world of grief.

There have been times when my pain has immobilized me, and I am unable to move, though for how long I know not. By now this is not an unusual occurrence, though I cannot tell how often it happens.

I find myself forgetting, more and more, what my life was like before I was immersed in this never-ending pain. I refuse to recall the times gone by, for the grief I feel when I remember them cuts through me like a blade, piercing the parts of my torn and broken heart that still remain.

Once I still wept. Now tears will not leave me. Perhaps I have cried all the tears I can. Only numbness remains.

I heard a minstrel in the village, singing a song of triumph, of victory, of joy. The hero in that song was brave, confident, strong and hopeful. He was alive.

The song was about me.

My heart still beats, but it is a ragged, broken, defeated beat, stuttering, and at times stopping all together. It is numb, my shattered heart, but can do no more than continue beating.

Beating.

Beating.

What happened to the man they sing about? For no one would recognize me as the man I once was. Eyes that were once bright are now dull, hands that were once firm now hang useless. The smile, once so joyful, is dead, and the voice, once clear and booming, is barely a whisper. I am a dead man walking.

There was a time when my heart knew joy. Then joy was taken.

There was a time when my heart knew courage. But courage was taken.

There was a time when my heart knew peace and hope, hope for better things to come. But peace is gone, never to return, and hope has been crushed underfoot as the realities of life have reared their ugly heads. Yes, joy and peace, too, were taken from me.

There was a time, oh so very long ago, that my heart knew love. It burst with it, sang with it, proclaimed it from the highest mountain and in the lowest valley, rejoicing in the wonder. My heart reveled in love, basked in love, lived for love.

But love was taken away.

No, it cannot be called life. For life should not be so alone.