(An excerpt from Sita’s writing project)
He was wasting precious time. I guess he didn’t really have anything to do with his time except waste my time. A big man who had nothing but smallness inside. He would go home to his humdrum life, a wife who he didn’t really love anymore, and wallow in his own pain never thinking of anyone else’s, then he would come back to work and take it out on everyone else. Take it out on the happy people who he blamed for his misgivings. Perhaps they had stolen his happiness away, locked it in a box and kept it hidden from the world. Maybe he thought it would be best to end it all but then realized he wasn’t selfless enough to do that, or selfish enough to do it. So, he stayed in that little grey area where so many people are, not caring for a soul but themselves. Only enough narcissism in them to keep themselves alive, none more. They keep themselves busy because its their only outlet, they have no one but themselves and they know it, but to them to be themselves will never be enough. The disposition rubs off on people like the smudges of purple-pink that encircle the edge of a wine glass, and the grey area expands covering the world with guilt, sadness and longing and the few that are legitimately happy are the lucky ones. I am not one of the lucky ones, but I guess I’m not in the grey area either.