He lay there in bed looking at the ceiling. The lights are on because they are always on. There's enough darkness in his life that keeping the lights on represented some bizarre metaphor that there was actually a taste of hope.
Breathe... keep breathing...
There were no pillows on the bed. During the night he would reach out for one and draw it close for comfort, but there was no love returned... no comfort to be obtained. Strewn across the room randomly they lay as he regretted that somehow he had even isolated himself from his pillows... the last things that he had in his life that even tried to give him comfort.
He held his breath until the sharp pain in his lungs overcame him forcing him to exhale, inhale... breathe.
He was now sleeping 3 hours a night. If he was lucky. Now there was no solace in dreamless sleeps. No peace from his pale existance of a life.
Breathe. Inhaling deeply he let out a yell... then laughed. Laughed because he knew no one would hear.
If he just stopped... stopped showing up would anyone notice? He already knew the answer. It was a social experiment that he had tried before that only reinforced his insignificance in the world. No one really ever notices him when he's gone.
He knew that he didn't matter.
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