Long live life, Live a long life

He’s having something on his mind, something is troubling him. It was always troubling him, ever since he could even remember, it was there. Haunting, protecting him. Like a spirit, like an angel. Yet, the consistent relapses have been extremely unpredictable. He’s in distress; he needs something no one can offer help. He’s ablaze in the burning asunder of hell deep below while being showered with the bliss and felicity of the heavens up above.

He’s in doubt.

Nights spent turning and tossing about, or its just plain disruption of sleep. The narrator deems it to be insomnia. The narrator wants him to fall asleep. He tries to close one and open the other. He has to fill its quota. He doesn’t know where he got it from, a curse or a blessing?

He feels awkward, shallow, and trivial. In fact, you can neither blame yourself nor the narrator for placing the character to be stuck in nothing, in naught. -There’s nothing which could be comprehended by the normal, by the peasants, by the bare.

By the fools.

He tries to shut one of them, he knows the pain. He understands his pact, he remembers his task. He holds his oath, an oath he was forced to accept for a reason.

He upholds his integrity, he knows his morals taught. A reason he was never told, a reason he never knew. He wields it, praying to the gods above. He just wants his pact to be gone, torn, and withdrawn. He just wants to be the average kid of his average group. Get an average group of friends; get into an average school, live an average life.

He’s nowhere near ordinary.

He hates what he’s blessed with, though everyone has them. They’re ordinary. Yet, he knows that his are special. He gives thanks, to he-who-blessed-him with this curse. He gives his thanks, for his is conditional. His can be controlled, not something 24/7. Not something as dull and rueful as the soil under. -Simply unpredictable

What nonsense am I writing?