It hasn't stopped raining; the weather has been like this for days. The raindrops collide with the glass, producing a soothing sound, yet watching the drops slide down gives me an odd sense of melancholy.
Why is that?
I pause by the window and gaze outside without any particular intention.
Do I want the weather to clear up? To be honest, I don't care. It's not as if things would be any different; I'd still be here, just the same.
On sunny summer days or during the winter snow, the other children from the neighborhood and school usually run around the town and play in the park. However, on rainy days like this, perhaps some of them get a small taste of my routine. It truly is a monotonous routine, but I believe boredom makes for good company.
I simply look outside and imagine a calm rain like this one preventing me from going out. Nothing indeed restricts me from experiencing freedom; the truth is, I have no desire to escape this boredom.
Ever since I can remember, this indifference has been ingrained in me. Nothing has color. I look around and can only see gray-toned people and scenery.
Misanthropy is a concept that perfectly explains my relationship with the world. Indeed, I have a total aversion to human nature, though my aversion to myself is even greater.
I turn my gaze back to the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass. Among them, there's one that has stopped moving, static. Stationed in the exact same spot, refusing to follow the water cycle. Could it also be unmotivated?
Then, two more drops stop nearby, and due to their proximity, the three merge. Now, with more mass, the new drop overcomes surface tension and resumes its descent.
It's hard to put into words, but I feel like something is missing from me.
A purpose? Yes, perhaps it's a purpose.
Why do I even live?
Am I alive? Can I even consider myself alive? I'm not sure. I think I might have already died inside or perhaps been born dead.
I suppose all that's left for me is to wait like a mere bystander, detached from this world. Like autumn leaves, I can only sit and await my predetermined end.
Nevertheless, despite all this tedium, rare thoughts captivate my attention.
I asked my parents why they are so determined to make me happy. Then I heard the most banal answer: because they love me.
Love? That word bothers me so much…
They say love is the strongest feeling, the most beautiful, pure, and noble sentiment. This is a contradiction in itself.
Undoubtedly, they must recall the stories where a noble and virtuous knight slays the dragon, the ultimate symbol of evil, to save his princess. The knight's love is so strong that it gave him the courage to face the most dangerous creature for his beloved. Thus, the story concludes with the iconic phrase, "and they lived happily ever after," symbolizing the completeness of their pure and beautiful love.
However… what if the knight had to sacrifice an innocent life and offer their blood to the gods to save his beloved from a terrible disease? What would the noble knight do?
If he refuses and chooses to follow his morals and ethics, then his love wasn't that strong, as it's bound by goodness, by a righteous cause. On the other hand, if he decides to proceed in the name of love, it means his feelings for the princess are actually something far more sinister.
Small demons whisper in my ears.
"What kind of love is yours?"