Prose

A Comdey of Sorts

written by: Ithilgalad

It's a curious thing, my life.
The irony it thrusts at me is no laughing matter.
The comical cruelty I deal with is
By no means funny.
The stage I'm forced to stand on is so
Icy cold,
It's a wonder I can even force a smile
These days.
It seems even my mask wishes to cry.

And yet here I sit,
laughing.

Because there is no hope.
Because the sorrow is too great.
Because the drugs don't work.
Because passion is a game.
Because fear makes me weak.
Because rage burns my soul.
Because love is lost.
Because everything is wrong.

Yet the tears won't come,
The screams won't erupt,
The words won't form,
The trigger won't pull.

So I just sit here,
And I laugh.

Because the joke's on me.