He kept standing up from his bed, although he had no intention whatsoever in doing it. His room was his fortress, his cage, his prison, his refuge. This bittersweet feeling was just enhancing the lack of balance that hanged over this tenuous line that separated his so-called freedom from his self-imposed handcuffs. There were no chains, however he could feel that his steps' elapsed distance was limited.
The door is the hardest part to get through - it feels like moving a whole planet, just to realize that it is even harder to move yourself out of this place. There is no fear - only reality striking hard on a guy that is just waking up. The burden is not, but it surely feels like way over he can bear. And he barely does. Out of the room, he is still engulfed within the house - but rules have already changed. Away from that door, he is exactly what he thinks he is - life passes and you get to be right much more often that before. Much more often than you wish, some times.
His words, just as his steps, come at a slow place, as if studying where and if it should carry on this hurtful message. He is not sad, he is not lost, but he is not content and don't know where to go. The years were hard on him and spared no mercy. Eyes swerve away. Heads still held high. Not looked down on, not looked up to. Just like that, a face to be forgotten amidst the crowd. Not a hero, not a villain. Believing in God, in good. Leaving important things behind that door, the only place he can be himself.
He had his chances, he had no regrets. Past is past and there is no closet in his room to keep skeletons.
It takes just a little faith, the Big Guy said. Just a little faith.
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A face that accepts oblivion. The worst villain.
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