Sins grabbed hold of his soft, fluffy white pillow and grasping it firmly, tore it into half, proceeding to beat the non-living object to pulp, sprouting cotton feathers all over the place. Now, even more enraged at the ensuing mess, Sins screamed with all his might, his gaze moving upwards.

“Get out of my head! Leave me alone!”

He was helpless. He had never felt this low in his life before. It was as if, he were wandering for existing’s sake, with no purpose or aim, content in his shamelessness, making no effort to progress intellectually or otherwise. The problem was, he wanted to progress. He wanted to, with all his heart and soul.

But, he couldn’t.

He would stare and register the passing time, trying to will himself to do anything productive, but all he could muster was thoughts, progressive thoughts but no progressive action. He only thought, never did. He knew how to do it. But he wouldn’t. And that was the problem he was trying to understand.

Why wouldn’t he?

He could and would have understood, if his family were really well off, but they weren’t that well off, just comfortable by a good margin, maybe just enough to scrape a year without his parents working. Sins felt like a plump parasite, an expert in sucking off the blood and sweat of his guardians and shamelessly revelling in the feeling, as if he were the heir apparent of a fortune.

Why couldn’t he muster up the will to act? He felt, if he could somehow just begin reading a book, his flow could come back. That’s what he was after, the magical flow.

He thought about it for an hour and slept.

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