The World in my Hands

This is a piece that I have literally just written. I don't know why, I don't know what it is for, I don't know how to classify it, I don't know if i shall hate it in ten minutes time.

But I felt it should go somewhere. (Don't worry, it's short)

THE WORLD IN MY HANDS

I sit here upon my alleged throne, surveying the wonder of all that is beneath me, and I am forced to consider, is their life better than mine? All of those souls there, beavering away below me, are they happy? Do they feel that true happiness? In some way, I hope that they do, because I like to believe, in my more philosophical moments, that the pain, and the sorrow, and the guilt, and all of the other burdens that I bear, are borne for a reason.

For freedom. For pleasure. For the happiness of others.

These are the reasons I am here, alone. Too frightened to change, too scared to move, too petrified of the slightest alteration. Balanced here, like the proverbial father who has just got the television aerial to pick up a clear signal, but who is now precariously balanced on the window ledge, torn between providing for his family, and his own comfort and desires. This is the manner in which I exist.

I sometimes consider it. Throwing off the shackles, trusting the world to keep turning without my say-so and allowing myself to experience the pleasure. I dream of abandoning this sensible method of living and embracing my wants fully.

But I fear that my existence can not be altered. I chose my path and the bell has been rung. To please those below me I must continue my futile struggle against the incoming darkness, aware that eventually it will triumph and I shall become engulfed. Hoping, against all hope, that when I am destroyed another shall take my place. Not daring to imagine how it will be if there is no replacement, no alternative, no other me.

Just the darkness.

I stare down at the world, safe in my hands. And I weep.