Threads of the Damned

It was a gloomy day, as every day would have it...
Checking the clock, coming to the realization — he hadn't been woken up.
He thought to himself, why did I think that I would've been woken up?
That's something they had long abandoned to do...
He mumbled to himself... for a while...
He was tired... why?
He didn't know. He knew he hadn't done anything but make "art" — at least that's how he pictured them mentioning his art.
Or maybe... were they even art?

Still being in his bed, trying to muster up the energy to work himself to an upright position, he wondered:

"What is it that someone calls 'Art'?"

Was it just... anything? Meaning anything that someone created?

He wanted to wonder more, as to leave himself floating above the many wonders and concepts he could think about.
Curiosity! came to his mind. Curious, he thought — does everyone have curiosity?
Is he the only one with curiosity?

Though he soon realized the latter couldn't be true — or inventions wouldn't have been there to begin with.
That's when a thought came sparkling in his mind:
He couldn't keep this up...

He sat upright in his bed, facing his desk, positioned just in front of a window — to let anything his curiosity could find outside compliment his art...

On his desk lay a couple of papers, seemingly having panels and characters with speech bubbles on them — some colored, others shaded like a manga.
A fluorescent lamp, which... he wondered why, only worked in the dark.

Perhaps they thought the only reason a lamp exists is for light — extra light — for work,
he thought as he glanced at the window.
Perhaps the only window in his room...
It must be because they knew he would put his art first.
That there were no lights in the room — the only light that existed was sunlight.

It was good.
It was his old-school way of getting tangled in his thoughts and starting daydreaming...

Saying that, he realized he had been daydreaming all along.

He stood up — perhaps a bit too fast, he thought,
as purple, blue — basically every color in hues of blues, reds, and white — layered on his eyes, forming shapes.
Weird shapes... or so he thought.

What made them weird?
Apart from when they came, what made them weird?
What does being weird even mean?
What was considered weird in the first place?

It wasn't that he couldn't think —
he didn't want to...

. . . . . . . . .

A sound was produced, like a thud,
as his body came in contact with a hard impact to the floorboards.

He had fallen unconscious.
It wasn't rare, or bewildering enough for him.
It was... a daily sight.

He thinks, as he slowly tries to open his eyelids.
But then he shuts them up...

He hears a voice.
Yelling?
Common.
Instigating?
Common.
Gaslighting?
Common.

But this time, it was something else.
It was... wait.

What was it again?
I don't... know... I... I don't remember.

It was... yeah.
It was the voice of someone who wanted to cry,
but had to hold it in.

He wondered, why would I... or more like — who could care enough for me... to cry for me?
Them?
Then again, no way it's them, like they surel—

That voice was eerily similar...
Yes.
They were at it again...

They couldn't live one day without starting something...