The Saddest Kind of Happiness
He sits on the floor, there’s no room anywhere else, trying to contain the mad adrenaline inside him. It’s always this way; as soon as he unlocks his room it starts. Pens, notebooks, colourful washi tape. Pencils, sticky notes, erasers; all placed in piles, stacks, mountains along the walls. His desk…full, draws… full - no room for clothes, just… stationery.
His features are bright and crazed, beaming as he eyeballs his favourite items. A simple pen, hanging from the ceiling with hundreds of others; orange, red, black… floral, completed with a fine silver tip. He could just imagine writing with that perfect, thick ink. Drawing lines in his favourite, clean, notebook. He never would, he never will.
He felt so full, ready to burst with his empty energy. But he dares not move; fearful of crushing an item in close vicinity. Bed… full; under the bed? Clothes. He sleeps sitting down, hunching over in the only patch of carpet to be seen. There are no