The Cage

Segregated, just because he's depressed. Just because he doesn't fit into society's ideals.

The Cage

      I watch from the bank as the clouds dance in an unending sky above me. I watch as the children, the innocent, laugh and play and love and care.

      I watch this scene unfurrow into a blackened lying mass of illusion, so disgusting that I have to advert my gaze from the awful scene, but so sweet that my head starts to spin.

      No, not sweetness.

      Depression.

      Dying.

      Lies.

      Nothing is okay.

      I hear the laughing calls of the happy, oblivious children as they play throughout the day.

      I listen with a morbid curiosity.

      How can they do it?

      Oh, it is a great thing, I’m sure, to feel love and to have it felt back to you.

    But I can only feel hatred.

    Hatred at what this world has come to.

    I find it amusing, in an awful way, of what people don’t see.

    What they don’t know.

     What they don’t feel.

    I could act as if I were just like them. I could go along my way throughout each boring, doleful day and act as if everything is peachy.

    As if everything is happy.

    As if everything is right.

    “Nothing is right!” I scream at myself, slamming my hands into the cold, rugged floor of the torn obelisk. I watch in an envious manner at the back of my mind as the people laugh, play, love, and act as if everything’s okay.

     Nothing is okay.

    Nothing will ever be okay.

    Everything, everyone, every time, is always just as fucked up as everything else.

It’s always a lie.

   Everyone’s so fixed on their unshaken, idiotic view that the world is flat.

    Everyone thinks there’s only one layer; the layer they’re on.

   The layer society is on.

    The layer their loved ones are on.

    The layer it’s said we should all be on.

    To them, anyone who lives on a layer that does not conform to society is odd. They’re stupid. They don’t know what they’re doing.

    Because according to them, the world is flat.

    Smooth.

    Even.

     Untouched.

    Cherished.

    Loving.

     But that’s all a f*****g lie.

    There is no such thing as good on this world. There’s too many flaws. Every single flaw boils down to yet another goddamn human thinking they know what to do.

    Thinking they know what’s right.

    Thinking it’s all ok.

    Thinking the world is flat.

    There are too many layers, too many people, too many problems. There are too many different ways to live than by the only way accepted.

      The innocent are the oblivious. They think the world is flat.

     But they’re wrong.

    There’s more than one layer to live on.

     They live on the highest layer though. They don’t have to, they will not, look down if they don’t have to.

    And they don’t know what they’re missing.

    And anyone who crawls up from a lower layer up onto their layer of what they, society, deem as perfect, is a freak.

     An outcast.

     They don’t believe that the layers below their own are right.

     So they persecute.

    Bully.

    They shove them down to the ground as if they can force them back out of their layer; send the demon back where it came.

     But they can’t.

    They can only make scars and bruises.

     The freaks are the only ones who can make themselves go back down.

    But they don’t want to go.

    On the layers below, there is no light.

    No happiness.

    No love.

    Just misery; just truth.

    They want to escape from that realm.

    They want to join those who don’t know the truth, the wrongs, and the lies.

    They want to pretend everything is okay.

   But they carry baggage from their past layers that pushes them away from the only accepted image of what they should be like.

     They carry an unknown baggage that causes them to be segregated.

    Bullied.

     They don’t know happiness because no one will let them taste it.

     They’re freaks.

    They don’t deserve it.

    Anything that’s not oblivious is a freak, and deserves to be pushed around. It deserves to be discarded, dispelled, and lost. It deserves nothing.

    That’s what society says anyway.

    So they shove the freaks into the ground. They try to convince them to leave, to go.

     It usually works. They usually go quietly. They slunk back down into the shadows, taking their baggage back to the world they just escaped from.

     They go back to the torture. The lies. The greed. The death. The truth.

     But there are exceptions. There are the people who refuse to go back. Those who long so desperately to have a feeling, a taste, of happiness that they refuse to accept anything less.

     These are the ones who can’t cope with the fact that they aren’t accepted, just because they aren’t perfect.

    Just because they aren’t happy.

    And they are tossed around, unloved, because the people they try to cling on to throw them away as soon as their sadness comes up. The people they tried to cling on to don’t want to be in the sorrow with them, so they discard and replace them as soon as the freak’s sadness becomes palpable. They never really loved them, because they couldn’t accept who the freak really was.

     They couldn’t accept that they came from a lower layer, and they can’t accept that it’s okay to come from a lower layer.

     And these freaks that wouldn’t leave back up closer and closer to the wall until it finally hits them. Until it finally breaks them. And they fall into insanity. They get trapped in a cage where they can’t escape from because they are truly unloved and won’t go back to where they’re from.

     But they’re given one way, one chance, out.

     I’m one of those exceptions that wouldn’t go back.

     And now I’m in my cage, ready to escape.

     We’re all given something to let ourselves out, but it’s not something good.

     It’s a rope, a gun, a height, a knife, or anything of the sort.

     And as I stand up in my cage for the final time, I let the world unfold around me. I watch the laughter of the innocent that never actually cared about me, no matter how many times they want to say that they did. They discarded me and left me to rot.

     Just like everyone and everything else.

    Every f*****g time.

     So I grab my last chance at escape, the final tool, and I put it to the test.

      Hand on the trigger, I release myself from this cage.

     Away from sadness.

     Away from happiness.

     Away from segregation.

     Into darkness.

    Into nothingness.