All men are blind.
“You have no purpose.” They’d whisper in her nightmares. “You don’t need to be here. Kill yourself. Just die.” The voices clawed at her sanity.
“Am I insane?” She would ask herself. “Is there something wrong with me?” She would question herself staring at the mirror. Night after night, the nightmares grew. She could not sleep. She stopped eating. She just asked the question on and on, “Why do I exist?” She would sit for hours curled up in a ball, rocking herself back and forth, looking for the desired answer. Then, she stopped getting of her bed at all, not to change nor eat of even defecate.
Friends and neighbours tried to talk to her, but she would never listen. She would yell, scream and tear out her hair; throw bottles and books and shoes at them, till they were driven out of the cold, damp, stinking house. She would cry, scream and kick at night, as the silent moon mocked her wails. She would yell about the voices, about the emptiness of a life; she would yell “Why was I born? Till one was driven almost as insane by her ranting.
Seven months later, her neighbours were compelled to call a mental ward. They came by her house with tools fit only for an animal....merely to find her dead. That night she had stabbed herself. What was terrifying is that she had managed to do so seven times, in her gut, with a bread knife. Her body was removed from the apartment, and left to rot in a coffin.
In death, she had only one regret.... she never found the answer. Above her grave stone a stranger left an anonymous note, written by the only person brave enough to attend her funeral.
“My dear girl,
Forgive me that I did not come sooner. I will answer that which cost you your life.
My child; it is in living we fulfil our purpose, for every second we live, another’s life is affected. It is in the death, that we become truly meaningless to this world.
The purpose of an individual in life is to live to search for his purpose, not to die due to lack of one. You were truly more blind than a sightless man.”
The strangest thing was, nobody could recall a single figure standing near her grave the day the letter was found. Someone had written it, the only person brave enough, but to the human eye, he or she, did not exist. Their eyes could not see, their eyes only envisioned a shaft of sun light falling on the grave through the gaps in the leaves.
How strange. This world is full of blind men.
The World is full of those who cannot see, who are compelled to utter darkness. If only the light would flicker into their view, then perhaps they could find their way, into the truth that is so obviously hidden.