He felt it. A cold, familiar presence engulfed him, making him stop in his tracks. Not quite paralyzed, but suddenly apathetic, he closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. One, two, three. After what felt like an eternity, it passed. He was free.

Inner struggles are often the worst, because you can’t ask for help, can’t run away. His inner demons were there all along, their incessant voices whispering in his ears ever since he had started thinking for himself. The cold grasp of uncertainty, self-deprecation, and numbness rarely left him. At least, not for long.

He tried all the methods. He tried writing, but all his stories ended with the protagonists’ demise, which was neither surprising nor captivating for his ever-diminishing audience. He tried drawing, but even the lovers of the avant-garde would never find anything enticing about those abstract atrocities. He tried long walks, poetry, subcultures, music, and self-harm. Nothing did it for him. Life passed him by, bringing no joy. The world below was slowly changing, but the small place he called home stayed the same, much like himself. The world seemed quite happy to just let him be, oblivious to his existence. He quite liked that arrangement.

And then the bombs came. Falling from the sky, they ruined the slumberous reality and brought him new sensations. Fear he had known, but never fear so immense and physical. He had never held his life dear — most of his days had been filled with fatalistic fantasies — but suddenly something inside told him to stand up, to move. Like a puppet, he obliged, feeling the need to continue breathing. This once, there were allies.

The bombs never went away. The cold presence stayed with him, but along with it, he felt something new. Rage. Anger. The new feeling was raw and new — even righteous. He had never had much, and yet they came for whatever he had left. And it was like that everywhere. Rage flowed like a river, uniting people in fury. He was still damaged, but he was not alone. Let them come.