The Despondency of Drake

zenthepoet By zenthepoet, 30th Aug 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Short Stories

A Morning Made of Despondency..

Everything originates and terminates in the backdrop of darkness. Sightless we are in birth and mortality conveys an eternal failing vision. In the course of our lives, there is a singular constant, which is the hollowness of profound misery.

Bliss is rare. A satisfaction, which only reveals itself periodically.

The Despondency of Drake

"The Despondency of Drake"

Everything originates and terminates in the backdrop of darkness. Sightless we are in birth and mortality conveys an eternal failing vision. In the course of our lives, there is a singular constant, which is the hollowness of profound misery.

Bliss is rare. A satisfaction, which only reveals itself periodically.

For some, pleasurable instances are memories that are blurry. They know that glee has visited, but the momentary joy is lacking all lasting potency. The wretchedness of some is worse than the usual short-lived dissatisfaction.

Certain souls who understand, the excessively nefarious feeling of a faulty mental fluidity.

The proprietors of a perpetual futility.

"Drake at Dawn"

The sun has yet to peer through the curtains of the approaching day. Inside his abyss, his domain of dismay, Drake is stretched out in bed staring at emptiness.

It is another moment in time of insignificant existence.

It is another day of isolated despondency.

Every morning, feelings of hopelessness are cultivated in his mind, filtered through his blood, and consequently harbored in his heart. Heaving a wearisome sigh, he imagines how truly beautiful it could have been, to have everlastingly remained dormant. Yet, that gift of liberation miserably vanishes with the awareness of waking up to another day.

Drake sits up, and stares at the bleak uninviting barrenness. He smiles a depressing grin, for his hope that the darkness would swallow him whole, did not occur. Which means his pain will be prolonged, one day further.

He forfeits.

He is awake. He is alive. He must continue.

He gets up in a sluggish motion.

Dragging himself, he dazedly travels to the bathroom. Half awake and half in his thoughts, his fingers inspect the contours of his facial features, assuring him of wakefulness.

Entering the bathroom he illuminates the room. Stares hazily into the mirror and is once more, reassured.

Repetition is the sole aspect, preventing reality from becoming completely irrational.

In the mirror he gazes upon a person who he hardly understands. Melancholy eyes intake his own features, his standard medium body, slick back black hair, and white skin that serve as a fitting background for his luminous crystal blue eyes. Also, he carries a scar that slashes from his right eye brow, down the side of his jaw line.

Seeing this person, Drake becomes saddened by the mystery. He scarcely knows who he is, and if ever he were to unleash himself by forsaking medicine, he dreads the frightening consequences.

The facial abrasion is an adamant memento of what transpires, when you refuse to comply with authoritarian directives.. The medical practitioners who profess to comprehend the mechanism of the mind. He stings with sadness, yearning for the day that resolution is delivered, to the endless empty promises, of prescribing an effective cure.

Father once said: "It's your own creation, the workings of your illogical imagination."

Mother said: "Doctors "know", honey. They did not attend school for nothing."

Yet, now it has all become a memory. Even if they never believed that his illness was worse than the doctors suspected, as he believes, he still very much grieves over this tremendous loss.

One day an argument occurred, over the not wanting to endeavor on a family vacation. He fought, arguing that the trip would place a strain, on his already debilitated state of mind. So his parents departed on this flight alone.

That day a horrid unexpected event occurred, as a plane became deconstructed by a crash.

That day he received solitude. And while all through life he felt the presence of Depression, now he drowns in the malignancy of Despondency.

It's been a year since the plane crashed, and with it, crashed his only feeling of security. But his pain and sadness, screams each and every day. He feels identical to the moment when he was forced to identify the bodies. A viral feeling of infection, which maintains a malignant state of mind.

So in this bathroom, he finds a stranger, the man who is lacking all direction, and all familiarity.

Where is the solution? Is there a solution?

It all began with ridelin at six... and eighteen years later, the doctors still... still... have not clearly stated what is deficient with his mind.

His sadness aches for a tear, but his anger shoves it away, bringing forth nothing but resentment.

This is another day, of living a sedated life.

He opens a drawer, lifts a variety of small bottles from within and analyses the labels.

"It's the Cure!" he sarcastically says to no one.

Taking out a pill from the first receptacle and putting it on display in the center of his hand, he holds it parallel to his face and merely stares.

Ponders on the swallowing significance.

Smiling an unhappy smile, he mumbles: "That day will arrive. The day of fleeting fear, even if fright may surely follow"

Drake thinks of the day that he will fail to take his controller, his conforming substance, the one day that he will let himself loose, from his emotional shackles.

That day is yet to be.

He pops the pill. He swallows it dry and slaps himself in the face with furiousness. Grimacing he says out loud: "I guess, awake I am."

Then he opens the drawer at the bottom, and pulls out a HiWater bottle of the liquid of life. In a quick succession he pops, drinks, and swallows, the rest of his medicinal product.

He then begins disrobing himself, to continue his daily ritual. He turns the knobs that control the shower head, unleashing a heap of liquid. Drake sits on his porcelain thrown, relaxed by the sound of the falling, artificial rain. The soothing sound, aids him, in the further contemplation of a menial mundane existence, while banishing the waste found in his body.

Once finished, he places himself beneath the mesmerizing falling water. This is the ultimate climax, of his awaiting despondent day.


Depression, Despondency, Disturbed, Drake, Malignant, Poetry, Story

Meet the author

author avatar zenthepoet
A creater of notion and expressionist of vitality.

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