The Tempest

The storm tortured him.

He saw his morals and philosophies parting ways.
He was brought at crossroads. But all the roads seemed to culminate into cul de sacs
He was mad at himself, the world and all that he had so painstakingly imbibed.
He developed a ferocious hate, an anger, a rage, a vengeance against himself.
How could he have gone so wrong?
How did he fail to foresee the obvious?
Where had his clairvoyance vanished?
How could he have so easily conceded the game?

The worst part being, He was absolutely helpless. He couldn't punish himself, for the punishments were to be reflected back on the emotions of his dear ones, who believed in him the most.

He cursed life, He cursed the creator, He cursed himself.
He had joined forces with the storm, He inflicted blows on himself perhaps even more cruel than even the storm had envisaged, all under a veil for he didn't dare to lay bare his emotions.

The storm swept him on to abandoned shores. He was now devoid of emotions. Life was just a burden, a ritual which he desired to be ended naturally as soon as possible. It didn't hold anything for him.

He'd started acting. He had learnt to put a grim smile on his face.
He swallowed up his tears.
He took refuge in the loneliness of the night. It had not failed him before and wouldn't so now.

He feared happiness, He repulsed it with all the vigour he could muster. He knew he was stubbornly equipped enough to carry out such tasks to perfection.

He had lost purpose in life. He had lost interest.

But ....

Somewhere within him, things were bubbling. He was vulnerable to Love and Happiness.

He basks in this paradox, waiting hopelessly for something which he is sure will not arrive.