The painting brush of life

by Rona Nushi

 "No rain can wash the act of evilness, when rain doesn't touch your skin."

 Under the roof of punishment and behind the bars of compunction, Sam's body attempted to stand up. No move had a goal and no work held hope. His soul became homeless when his finger shot for death millions of seconds filled with joy or sadness of another man. He breathed in for the only reason to breath out. What was about to happen after that, was all a mystery.

 Recalling the time when light translated brighter colors, Sam was just another ordinary person. He had a job, a wife and two kids. This was supposed to be the perfect life he ever asked for. Or, maybe not!
 In the middle of this fake cycle of perfectness, there was a vacuum which killed him day by day. The so called "breath taking vacuum" seemed to be very essential for his life.
 Every tick-tack that used to pass, was supposed to make him wiser, but he still couldn't define what was this essential thing missing to his soul. Each day he was a witness of his kids growing up, his wife's hair going grey or his own words getting lost.

 On a grim morning, his grim thoughts were empowered on a negative level, as he had lost the valuation of life. This was the most dangerous lost a man could ever go through, as it could multiply into a much bigger lost. He expressed his doubts, his unanswered questions and his missing parts with a bullet moving through a tube, flying in the air and opening a wound inside the head of another man.

 An eternal wound.
 A disaster.

  A box of 9 square meters was really small to fit both, his body and his regretness. Sam was no more Sam. He was no more even a man. He was a moving machine, waiting for the batteries to die, and throwing himself away. He had nothing to get and nothing to give. And that was his problem, his toxin that contaminated even innocent people. The "killing vacuum" wasn't something he should have waited to get. It was the things he never gave, the soul he never put on things. The soul! This is the painting brush of life. He missed that. He missed the point of life.

 Contrary, he killed lives.


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