The change

There’s a fire burning. Consuming his eyes and his soul.

There’s a scream held up tight in his throat. Too afraid to come out in full force. Scared that it might actually hurt someone. That it might actually do the damage he thinks of doing. At night. At midday. When the sun rises and dawns.

He’s lost his touch in living. He’s lost his touch at what he did best in this life. He’s rusty like an old piece of metal, left in the pouring rain for decades in a row.

You can tell it by the way he looks at other people. Never truly facing them in the eyes, but avoiding them. Afraid that his secret plans will be discovered. The fantasies of his broken mind, unraveled. The punishments he sees fit; for all of us and for himself.


All he wanted to do is to help others. And to find happiness. But instead, he got enslaved by his work. His own choice. Routine after routine. Helping no one, really. Just making money and chasing dreams that somebody else put in his head for him.

He tried to find love, yet all he found was strangers. Broken people, consuming his precious time. Chaotic in their small minds, driven by desire and vice.

It broke his heart. This long search for the ones he loved. It made him numb and bleach.


So what do you do then? When the earthly pleasures so praised by the others don’t make your heart vibrate with enjoyment?

When you look at what others are doing in envy and disgust? And then look with the same angry eyes at yourself in the mirror?

People would brand him as mad. People would recommend him to take a break. To find some balance. Some relaxation. To clear his mind.

That might help. For a while. But that feeling always comes back.

Have you ever felt the inside of your body getting filled with fuel? Pouring gasoline in your very veins and setting them on fire?


One would think that age would bring him some peace,  but instead it made him more angry. Arguing that, as time passes, you get to find out the true value of your wasted time. And how much you do, in fact, waste away. On people not worthy of it. On actions not worthy of it. Slaving. Slacking. Doing anything else than what you should be doing with it. Small distractions that bring you closer to your end.

And after all is said and done, what’s left of this old man? Anger?! Pumping in his heart, burning his insides.

It’s sad, really. That he has not yet found peace, now in such a close moment to his peril.

Still bickering about truth. About value. About morals and ethics. Still failing to see the world for what it truly is.

So I gathered the courage and went to ask him: Why are you so angry, still? Why can’t you just enjoy the rest of your life for what it is?

He started laughing, the old fool, showing half broken teeth and cavities. His laugh turned to coughs, skewing his wrinkly skin.

“I tried to help many. To change their lives for the best. At least that’s what I thought.

All changers are angry men. Because when you try to change something in this world, nobody really trusts you. They all mock you. Say that you’re worthless. That their little daily lives mean more than what you’ll ever accomplish.

So they refuse your treatment. They refuse the change you bring upon them. They are too stubborn to care for its value. So what do you, in fact, accomplish in this short life? Some good tries and your head bashed on the wall one too many times?


I am angry because of many things. Angry of my vices and frailties. Angry of my lack of knowledge. And love. Angry of my imperfect body and my lazy mind.

But most of all, I’m angry because I never truly had any friends. So that I may share with them.

The change.”

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