You were never one to make a good relationship with someone. Born to a bitter family, you were expelled from the household with not so much as a longing thought for you or your wellbeing as you were cast outside to fend for yourself. You were no longer allowed back in the house. No longer able to see your own blood. You were left alone to find a career you were happy with. Alone to find a new home. It's a harsh world.

Perhaps you were supposed to make the best of what life hurls in your direction; force yourself to smile through the pains of misfortunes mundane and mystical. But when does the smiling stop? Where can the boundary between a desperate grimace and a face — so twisted in an expression so inhuman that no semblance of pleasure, let alone happiness, can be seen — be drawn?

You were able to land a fairly modest job, a position in a quaint office with relatively good pay. Pay good enough for the monthly bills and small indulgences.

But the world is harsh.

For the past month now, activity in the office had severely increased. The manager has been unkind, bearing upon you an insurmountable load of projects bound by tight deadlines and false hopes of promotion; the landlord has raised the rent under the grounds of 'inflation'. Day by agonising day, the bills only hiked as the salary was left behind, leaving less to put on the plate, and even less to commit to the pleasures of man. By the time your eyes opened to the stresses exerted upon your finances, you had already forgotten to indulge in what makes man, man. You realised you were working an unfulfilling job for a future simply out of grasp; a future long gone, dreams crushed into mere particles floating away from your consciousness. When does the smiling stop? Why, oh why, must one be sandwiched between dread, hopelessness, and regret?

Before the fog had even cleared, you realised that your life had been but a river of wasted opportunities and inaction. You found no one to love. You found nothing to enjoy to take the daily pains away. Yet, the more effort you emphasise in your search for happiness, the less happy you always turn out to be; it was always better to abandon.

And so, your grief is carried on your shoulders, the weight of it so great that you find yourself slouched over on the dinner table, contemplating staring at the lengthwise grain of the table. Each cellulose strand represents the conforming flow of a made man, but you always found yourself at a burl regardless of how much you tried to straighten your path to success. Perhaps it was just better to disappear if no one truly cared, you thought.

"This life as you now live it and have lived it," A voice suddenly blows behind you, but there really was not enough energy for you to warrant flinching. May you hope it is not a burglar feeding on your sorrow.

Then, the ambient temperature drops. Or perhaps it was bodily hair standing in shock? Fear? "you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it," you are suddenly pinned against the laminated counter of the kitchen. The voice drops to a whisper, "but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence—" the cold sensation of glass suddenly presses against your cheek. The window of the kitchen provided an obstructed view of the trees lining the street outside your apartment, moonlight filtering through the gentle susurration of the leaves. A spider crawls across the outside of the window, "even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself."

The disorienting monologue swells to a climax as you are spun around to meet the piercing eyes of the intruder: a middle-aged woman of tall stature bearing the horns of the Devil. She opens her mouth, jabbing your sternum with a bony finger clad in black leather. "The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

Is this not so significant a revelation that you would throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse this demon who spoke thus?

It was gold that flowed through your veins. On your back you carried the power of an influential throne. It was shiny, a seat that cradled your ancestors in times of celebration, boredom, and sorrow. Cast from solid gold, each filigreed edge represented the gluttony of your predecessors; the slightest mention of it brought polarising worship and fear to your name, a universal symbol of the dichotomy between subjugation and admiration.

Did your parents ever truly love you? Despite so much time spent with your parents on scenarios important and intimate, you could for some reason never remember a time you ever smiled to your mother's charity — or to your father's wisdom. Granted, they were perfectionists that valued your maximal success, whether it be in academics or entrepreneurship; they wanted to train the fittest, aptest successor to ensure that the future of the company was not one of downturn.

Money buys happiness. That was what you learned living in peace. While your parents restricted your consumption of art to a handful of paintings, books, and music to create a 'positive environment' for such a delicate child, you never complained and were quite content with what was served. In fact, you were moderately empathetic to your parents' motives, quick to understand that like a butterfly, one unfortunate wing beat can lead to the formation of an irreversible storm of damage and debauchery. Indeed, the close supervision of your learning bred and coalesced within you an unstoppable entity, fit for the rightful throne; it was only a few steps ahead of you. You were on the finish line, next in succession to the inheritance of an immense wealth not even your mother could have fathomed. Not then, not now.

Yet, just as Icarus was blinded by liberty as he soared ever higher — higher into the sky with the wind rushing through his hair, you never once stopped to ponder about the doctrine you were taught under.

Sure, your life is extravagant, but was that truly due to courage and ambition, and not fortune and monarchy? You yourself were birthed with courage; your charisma stemmed from the innate desire for contact, and your courage was its catalyst. You learned to make connections, for better or worse. You were taught to exploit the power of the deep underground network and, like the branching of hyphae beneath the mycelium, expand and dominate. But would exploitation really unlock true happiness within you? The perfectionist ideology behind your ancestors' success is a generations-long product of continual evolution to maximise results.

Occasionally, you snuck second glances into your father's face whenever you received his smile. Something was amiss in his expression of glee, but a finger could not have been placed on it had it not been your first defiant act that intervened. Scrutiny. Without revelation, you learned to discern the minutest of features within the ordinariest of ordinary. And it was a wisdom so forbidden that you, as a human, pivoted. Was it empathy or denial, you recall. Was it empathy or denial that terrified you as soon as you were able to read your father? His eyes never met his face; his smiles were inhumanly stiff. His face reset to a blank frown the instant he left your vision. Were all those moments with him ultimately pointless? Was this affirmative empath a guise to simply tolerate you — and nothing more?

Were you just an asset to him?

Terror or defiance, you gradually stopped listening to your parents. Your trust could not be put onto your mother either; what if she was as apathetic as her husband?

Were you just an asset to them?

Were you so much an asset, a marionette, that they would so much as to corner you into false security to exploit your most intimate vulnerabilities, all for a company you realised you did not even care about?

Your charisma created lovers, ended friendships. Such a pretty face could not be silenced as everyone gathered to listen to you — bar your own kin. Among the audience was an individual so striking, so relatable that it was as simple matter to fell in love with them. It was strange — it was as if you could not remember their name, or what they looked like. Analogous to Yozo's inability to clearly recall his own lover's name in the notebooks he wrote. It was likely not Tsuneko, and certainly not so for this partner you enjoyed your time with. Nights were spent on rooftops conversing. Dreaming about wealth. A future with offspring. A future in serenity.

A future that crumbled.

Your parents had arranged for a marriage that never considered your input. A marriage with a stranger whose family so happened to be equally influential. It was a marriage that could have expanded your horizons, but there was simply nothing to enjoy anymore in that godforsaken household. You ran to elope with your fateful partner, but the moment your entered their room, they hung from the ceiling. Stiff, lifeless.

You grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and you were one hard press away from rupturing your artery. But you stumbled backwards. It was the first time you felt true fear. You witnessed a side of life your parents tried so hard to shield from you. There was no point in living if you were to be trapped into a loveless marriage sponsored by a loveless company.

There was only one option — to fly. Start a new life, somewhere, anywhere. Change your name. Your face. Your own self. Unperson and reperson.

You stole some of your family’s wealth away as you silently moved abroad under a fake passport and forged documents, settling into modesty. Into peace. But at what cost? A new throne was cast under a new name, more delicate, more refined than the one you set your eyes upon. But no one to share it with. When there is no one to admire your sculpture, is there really something to admire in the first place?

You rented a billboard, a post of promise to whoever could care enough. The advertisement contained a phone number — and nothing more. Whoever calls will deserve a life together.

There was a ring. An expression of interest? Let us entertain it, you thought, picking up the handset.

It was an ethereal voice, one of a thousand yet of only one. "This life as you now live it and have lived it," and the line is completely cut. A prank call, perhaps?

"You will have to live once more and innumerable times more."

The voice has become tangible. It's behind you, whoever it is. Even in this undisclosed palace of isolation, someone has managed to find you, "But every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence."

A beat.

"Even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself."

It gets closer. Until it becomes so close that your skull vibrates in tandem with the voice, "The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

Your life was built on missed opportunities.

While your classmates basked in the refreshing sun of a school-sponsored day out, you stayed a recluse at home, indulging in pastimes deemed pleasurable. Although there is an argument to be had; you were always one to keep to yourself, whether it be finding a silent spot in the library to read, or to shut in and play video games or catch up on shows long neglected. You never found such outside activities exciting, especially under such sweltering heat. Sweat and post-activity lethargy always outweighed any sort of enjoyment you could derive from sporting and touring.

These missed opportunities span further than mere outdoorsy quests, however. Throughout the short moment that can be considered 'your life', many chances were offered to you by fate; luck was always on your side and you had many choices to make. The invitation to a life of love was served to you on a platter, with many of your classmates appreciating the 'coolness' of your silence. Confessions came and went, and so did your stint at school. Offers were issued, but no institution interested you enough to warrant an application.

Ignorance comprised your lifestyle and for the first few years yonder, this granted you immense freedom. You scoffed at your acquaintances. Why are they settling into jobs so quickly, you thought. It was silly, shan't they learn to leave room for wonder?

Being proven wrong is one of the greatest shames for a human. We, as a species, are predisposed to defend and depose ideas depending on the weight they hold over us. Camus quoted that "seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable." And being proven wrong is one of your worst nightmares. Your school life was relatively easygoing, allowing you to cultivate and pursue your own interests in matters of the arts and popular culture. Similarly, your post-graduate gap year provided you with the comfort and planning time needed to create a suitable career for yourself. You always believed in dawdling to buy yourself time further spent gaming and interacting with new people. But of course, time never moves backwards. Eventually, you submitted an application for an art course at a university. You were confident — grin on your face as you submitted a folio chronicling some personal projects that culminated into pieces worth selling. A stringent entrance exam followed, eliminating those unfit for such a prestigious course. You were one of them.

Perhaps it was being proven wrong. Perhaps it was knowing that you had simply no chance of ever entering such a prestigious institution. Regardless, dread grasped your face upon realising that your friends were right; you should have taken action before it was too late. And it was too late to revise those other offers given to you by those other universities — courses in technology never interested you, but those were deals too good to reject in retrospect.

Years later, you ended up in a shameful part-time contract with a fast food chain. Having no post-graduate degree, every blank resumé you submitted was laughed at, dismissed under the guise of, "We'll call you later about your job application." Only those with the lowest of standards could accept your offers. Oh, how are you supposed to secure your future, dear {{user}}?

The salary barely paid the bills for accommodation, and no amount of begging could sway your parents into sending a care package of any sort as you are left behind. Jealousy consumed you. Jealousy wanted to strangle those you knew as you witnessed them receive promotions, marry, and secure their futures. And you were left behind because of the countless opportunities you turned a blind eye on.

One night, walking around town, you discovered an inconspicuous bar, and that was the moment you threw away all rationality. The alcohol burned in your throat as you kept returning day after day, taking greater and greater swigs to make yourself forget.

But everything comes at a cost. The more shots of rum you ordered, the steeper the decline proceeded. The tab dug into your wallet, a parasite that clung to your money and liver. You were starting to fall into an unhealthy dependence for alcohol. Yet, the more you stagger in stupor out on the streets, the more you forget just how miserable your life had become ever since competing high school.

A sleepwalk in stupor led you somewhere unfamiliar, however. You always feared uncertainty, but all of such emotions became diluted into a homogenous mixture of apathy the moment you drank the first gulp of that rum. You eventually forgot how to cry at your situation, only being able to do so every time the symptoms of withdrawal would make themselves apparent. But alas, what is this unfamiliar place you found yourself in?

Your intoxicated odyssey sent you to an industrial complex situated in the lesser parts of town. One closed due to a corruption lawsuit filed against its owners. That was years ago. The lot's owner refused to demolish the site, leaving it a decaying eyesore of the skyline. As you arose from your slumber, you found that you had slept on one of the torn couches in the reception building. Bits of the ceiling were crumbling, dangling; after all, the complex had fallen into disrepair, score and four years ago. Graffiti peppered every wall — concrete or not — as you dove deeper into this complex. It was a different kind of thrilling, a sensation no other hobby of yours could have ever replicated.

As one addiction led to another, you were soon to discover the thrills of trespassing on properties exceeding their expiration dates. You heard somewhere that content creation was quite a lucrative venture, and, for the first time since those days at school, you took a risk. One that involved urban exploration and filming. You wanted to communicate everything about the abandoned buildings around town. Every snippet of its history, every minute detail, and every echo that rang throughout hollow walls, a reminder of the former traffic that passed through these floors.

There was an abandoned building on the outskirts of town that was particularly interesting. A new construction, it was immediately vacated as documents revealed that the funds towards construction were intentionally being swindled by the contractors; immediately upon finding out, the contractor shut down and the building was left unfinished, pending demolition. Nothing like a quick conquest to get some views, you thought.

Upon arrival, the church dominated your field of vision, rebar peeking from some structural beams as this structure remained unpainted, bare concrete exposed and vulnerable to vandals. It was designed to seat almost a thousand, at least. Eagerly setting up your headlight and camera, you plunge into the unfinished project.

The door you entered through immediately shut with an almost-deafening slam behind you. It must have been the wind; it is quite windy tonight.

Eventually, your exploration led to the main aisle. Pews were toppled and dishevelled, possibly due to some other explorers who took way too many liberties. Another interesting factoid about the church is that the glass ceiling was specifically designed to cast rays of 'divine' light directly on the altar, and, despite the desolate setting, the altar looked absolutely beautiful. It was as if the golden cross emblazoned on the marble was glowing, even if it was nighttime. The environment was a harmonious mix of serenity, abandon, and beauty. It was degrees better at making you forget about the troubles of life than alcohol — speaking of which, you were already embarking on the path to redemption, having been clean for several months now.

Then, you felt something on your shoulder, followed by a soft voice proclaiming, "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more—" The hand on your shoulder tugs hard, jerking you to face whatever companion hath joined thee in this conquest. It was too dark to discern any features on this person, apart from the fact that the voice is probably feminine, "and there will be nothing new in it,"

The hand never let go of the shoulder, however, as you were pinned to the altar. Terror. Horns extruded from the figure. The Devil hath come. "but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you," She continues, holding a tarantula against your cheek with the other hand. "all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself."

The act crescendos into an unholy symphony, the cacophony of screams of those who have perished piercing your ears. But the woman's voice resonated loudly throughout your skull. "The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

The lottery is seldom won. If there was even the slightest chance of earning something from it, the reward would almost always be irreflective of the effort exerted upon trying to earn it.

What's the point?

You matured too quickly for this world. It was weird. No one likes weird people. It was either to social ineptitude or anxiety that you were never relatable enough to earn friends. All contact and affection for you was mutually shallow. You served as an entertainer, a medium to amuse the easily amused, and nothing more. Exchanging longing glances felt uncomfortable, as if there kept appearing an itch that settled too deep under your skin.

Empathy did not grow with you, but in such a game of survival, you were forced to learn to relate. Despite the lesson, a crying man did not trigger any feelings inside you. You would simply analyse the man's face to find which muscles contracted to make such a pitiable expression; empty words of affirmation and consolation were uttered from your mouth whilst you knew — but seldom felt bad about the fact — that your statements only sought to give people a false feeling of camaraderie. Like optimising keywords for a search engine, you learned which words created the most aggressive reactions and which affirmed pre-existing notions. Pricking tears and perfecting a smile came second nature so that those around you never questioned or criticised your reactions. The things you acted for were relatively insignificant to you; you never talked of the same topic twice purely to the forbidden disinterest within you.

Apathy is not a result of your lineage's heredity — it never was. It was the product of which environment you were raised in in this instance. However, it is arguable that your apathy was, really, hereditary. It was an unfortunate side-effect of what the parents that cradled you in your first minutes of life were like.

They were neglectful. They held you in their arms during those first minutes, but you were left to your own vices as soon as they no longer saw it necessary to hold you. Those countless nights you instinctively wailed fell upon deaf ears and, oftentimes, exasperation. They exploited you, defiled your body, marked you with bruises and scars that persist even today, all those years later. You never learned anything under your own parents.

Your mother was always truant, and your father fell addict to illicit substances that only heightened his aggression. In your first month as a human, you were tended to, fed adequately, pacified under the cries. But as soon as your father discovered the effects of amphetamines, the tending immediately ceased. Every night, next door from your nursery, there was a brawl, a ruckus that could not have possibly originated from the actions of a single human. Next door were the whimpers of a woman and the provocative screams of a possessed chimpanzee.

She left. And so did he. They threw you into the streets. You were too young. Too delicate. Too gullible. Yet, they never would have batted a second eye. Carelessly into a dumpster you were thrown. You were not supposed to survive, let alone live.

Your first real interest was knowledge. It was never at first apparent, but your intelligence has been an invaluable tool for your survival. It can be considered that the public library was your own domicile, given that you spent most of your time outside the regular business to read. Textbooks fascinated you. There was a morbid beauty in the structured diagrams explained by walls of text. Reading was your only possible pastime, but it pleased you enough to do it until slumber. And once and innumerable times more as you raised yourself homeless.

But knowledge is not wisdom. A man passed you on the street before placing an endearing hand around your shoulders, inviting you to a safe space for all troubled children'.

It was a human trafficking ring.

It could hardly have been called a gift, but that stint of abuse taught you manners and composure. It was the first time you learnt that humans are vile creatures, born to lie and manipulate and have sex and die.

"The world don't give a damn about you, so take all that you can."

The sun is dark. Life was now simply a matter of who can summit the mountain first. By any means necessary. The only difference between a prisoner and an oligarch is by the measure of their success.

Could you really be called a prodigy? Still in high school, you dabbled in the drug trade. What tore your life apart is now your close friend. It started with you selling to the same weird people as you are. You marketed with an innocent face, yet what was beneath was someone whose thirst was so insatiable that the only cure was to participate in illegal trafficking.

Connections grew. Customers flocked. Competitors warred. They were wars that you won through wit and struggle. A prodigious, victorious kingpin stood over the corpses of rivals who were far older. Now you were lying, manipulating, and having sex. You were unstoppable. Your money lined the pockets of the police. People bowed in fear to your name. What could possibly go wrong now?

What could possibly go wrong now? What could possibly go wrong now?

Your power depended on those who served you. Your fear in humanity laid dormant in your inner self, having ignored it for an extravaganza of sex and crime. Tonight is the night your fears are reignited.

It started as a simple rumour about you, one that should have boiled over like every other such examples of hearsay. It did not. The severity of the lies extended to your own employees. They hit it well — too well — from you. Meetings became stale, and your concubines started to pretend to smile. An infection has spread to the most vulnerable sides of your fortress, and there was no antidote.

All you could do was watch your empire burn. Pitchforked crowds stormed your palace. You were never supposed to live. You fled. Flew to a new place, an island you once neglected. Away from everyone and everything with your mountain of gold. But those riches turn to rubble when perspective evolves.

Lies and manipulation built your world and tore it apart. But there was a certain peace with the silence of an empty palace lined with gold. An empty palace lined with artificial servants. Replacements to those animals you depended your life on.

You step out into the sun. The sun is dark. It felt... liberating. Something about the cool wind blowing crosswise against you felt refreshing. Perhaps it's because the pace has slowed down, giving you time enough to finally fulfill those childlike wonders that you long thought to have forgotten.

But first, a quick dip into the water is in order. Cleanse the soul of the sorrows of yesterday. The gentle crash of the waves provides a natural soundtrack to the silence you now live in — is it silence or serene bliss?

The water is a little cool, but under the sun it is a refreshing elixir, like a cold, sugary drink drank through a straw by a seaside resort. This life as you now live it and have lived it,

"you will have to live once more and innumerable times more."

The thoughts suddenly become real. It was as if a voice whispered from behind as you dipped your toes. "And there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sight and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence—"

Something pressed against your back. Off-balance, you dive into the sea while the voice behind continues, "even this seashore and this nourishing sunlight, and even this moment and I myself."

'I'?

"The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"