Fiction: Hateful Orchard - Perfect moments ( monologue)

I have been sleeping for so long that it feel like it is forever. A small eternity passed of me waking up the last time. It was a long, long time ago. I forgot what were the names of the people I knew, and I forgot their faces. But this undisclosed feeling of error in missing them still lingers within me.

There was no other way, but for me to do this. There is no excuse, but who is anyone to tell me how nature must be so cruel to make me this way. The cruelest thing... I feel so alone, but then again I just want my well deserved piece.

I don't think that things are bad, but what my personal opinion is worth, I don't know. Should I give the best? Should anyone give the best? When I look down my path, what has been left of all that striving. Now somebody else is hustling the same question, the same fabric of reality... Or they are all the same people, just reborn.

And even if they give the best, what does it matter right now when I am awake. I feel a little bit out of a touch, but I will get a grip. I will take a hold of the things. I just need a moment. To think about all of this.

I have no control over my situation, this lonely subject of someone's imagination. I feel that that grand someone is playing a dangerous game by giving us all this freedom of thinking. Or it is fun to watch so many being struggling in despair. Trying to find a way out. I know that there is no way out. But, to whom should I say that. Who would listen to me?

You can not blame me for remaining silent. There was not a single soul next to me while I was bleeding in peril. Why should I help them? Why should I share anything from myself? For so much time I was completely neglected. And now, what? Should I further on remain silent?

Where were all those people I knew them a long time ago? Where are their progeny? Is it really all that difficult to perceive things from my point of the view? They say I am toxic and poignant, but the whole thing, this whole story is toxic. The Universe itself is this grand culprit, that murderer. If the things were so perfect, I would not be here.

I should love my existence. What for? Look at me. A shadow. An echo. A last remain of what I used to be. How should I love my existence? What's the point if everything at the end goes to waste? Is there any deeper meaning? I am afraid of the answer, because I know it really depends who is asking.

I am not even trying to become important. I just stood here and waited for that perfect moment. And now I am here because something, somebody, some freak of nature wants me to blossom. I don't want to do that. Please go away!

Photo by Cosmic Timetraveler on Unsplash .