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Literature Text
He saw the world dying slowly, collapsing under the weight of civilisation. The human race was too greedy; the human race was thoughtless. The process had been started long ago, and it could never be stopped.
It was no one's fault, and it was everyone's fault. They all were self-destructive. Children and mothers, followers and preachers – nobody remained without blame.
He had only put the finishing touches on this composition of creeping agony. He had pushed the button, and the bombs fell. And as they fell, nothing was left alive. Nothing but him – the self-proclaimed saviour. The one who supposed to create. Instead, he had destroyed it all. Who was there to judge him, when no one had survived?
Waiting for his own death, he felt surprisingly safe. The bunker protected him from the outside world. The place that had become more dangerous then ever. Concrete walls kept him away from this pit of hell. The sight of the Dead City brought nothing but despair. It was better to stay inside, forever. After all, he used to hide himself. Even before the End of the World, he had hardly come out of his shell.
He chose life, because he was a coward, and he lived with guilt and loneliness as his best friends. Sometimes he wondered how much longer it would take before he lost his mind. Years, or maybe months? The days passed so lazily. Boredom made him tired. He killed time writing pathetic log entries. With nothing left to do, putting his thoughts into words didn't seem like a bad idea. Even though no one would ever read it, he found it quite soothing. At least it prevented him from talking to himself.
Still, he had too much time and too little will to carry on. His existence became unbearably empty. Every morning, he looked for a reason to get up from his bed, but found none. Lying there for hours, he tried to convince himself to move.
"It's not that bad," he kept repeating his persuasive mantra. "It's not that bad, Alex. You are not dead yet."
Day after day, he fought with himself. No matter, how smart he might be - he was losing. Slowly.
It was no one's fault, and it was everyone's fault. They all were self-destructive. Children and mothers, followers and preachers – nobody remained without blame.
He had only put the finishing touches on this composition of creeping agony. He had pushed the button, and the bombs fell. And as they fell, nothing was left alive. Nothing but him – the self-proclaimed saviour. The one who supposed to create. Instead, he had destroyed it all. Who was there to judge him, when no one had survived?
Waiting for his own death, he felt surprisingly safe. The bunker protected him from the outside world. The place that had become more dangerous then ever. Concrete walls kept him away from this pit of hell. The sight of the Dead City brought nothing but despair. It was better to stay inside, forever. After all, he used to hide himself. Even before the End of the World, he had hardly come out of his shell.
He chose life, because he was a coward, and he lived with guilt and loneliness as his best friends. Sometimes he wondered how much longer it would take before he lost his mind. Years, or maybe months? The days passed so lazily. Boredom made him tired. He killed time writing pathetic log entries. With nothing left to do, putting his thoughts into words didn't seem like a bad idea. Even though no one would ever read it, he found it quite soothing. At least it prevented him from talking to himself.
Still, he had too much time and too little will to carry on. His existence became unbearably empty. Every morning, he looked for a reason to get up from his bed, but found none. Lying there for hours, he tried to convince himself to move.
"It's not that bad," he kept repeating his persuasive mantra. "It's not that bad, Alex. You are not dead yet."
Day after day, he fought with himself. No matter, how smart he might be - he was losing. Slowly.
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This is so great! I think you really got inside his mind!