there was a softness in being alone somehow undiscovered.
it sank into their very bones, it sank deeper. it fell through their eyes, down to the backs of their throats, into the pits of their stomachs.
it made them feel like small children, asking their mothers for medicine and a day off of school.
it was a sharp pain that made everything weaker.
and yet, there were no complaints. no one cried out to stop it. no one failed to recognize the ease of the transformation into complacency.
it felt good.
it stung behind their eyes, at times.
it hung on their hands, at times.
it sat on their chests, at times, and slipped its bony fingers around their waists.
but when it fell to the deepest part, the aching was numbed.
when it hit their minds, when it grew to soften all of their organs, when it had expanded even to their souls, this softness was unavoidable and freeing.
it was worth living for.
suddenly, they were all unafraid.
soft and unafraid.
(i miss writing without a purpose.
i'm going to start that up again, i think.)