Silent Commotion

Not them

You see, you don't realise until it happens to you, after all how could you feel the intensity of someone else's ever lasting torture, the changing course of their demeanour, the stiffening of their shoulders when a hushed whisper floats by, the hardened glaze that blankets their eyes, concealing every bit of their truth from the eyes of the reality. Their reality contradicts your religion, their rationality scurries your sanity the other way. It was true, their eyes didn't gleam the same anymore, neither did their hearts pump the same red anymore, constricting the differences between you both. It was simple actually, you weren't them. Your blood worked a different way than them, your eyes wandered in curiosity-theirs in alert. Your laughter bounced back, igniting a light whilst their laughter died down, only illuminating a road to abyss, a suffocating grasp- impossible to stay sober.
Your inebriated senses couldn't grant them access to a life without looking back, you just couldn't understand the thin threads they walked on, you couldn't understand how their oxygen felt like a drug, how their minds stumbled across the point of no return to sanity.
You knew everything, yet you made them feel more dead than alive. So now out of remorse, you tumble into the rooms of their lives, their pictures scattered across your bed, a constant reminder of the wrong you did, of the rejects you left behind to aid your pride. To aid your sanity. Maybe you were trembling with fear-the simple fear that you couldn't handle what they survived. You couldn't be what they are even if you tried.