I was feeling depressed. So I wrote this.

You may envision this in any interpretation you like: I, personally, set this fic in the 1940s film adaption (as that's the only Dorian Gray story I've actually seen, not counting League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) but any of the movies, or the novel itself, works.

You used to care about things, you know. Once upon a time, you had a purpose, a goal. Something or somewhere you envisioned in your mind—it used to keep you going. Keep you striving for success.

It all seems like a fairy tale now, doesn't it? Oh yes—the world is no longer that wondrous land of opportunity you used to fantasize about as a child. Fate has opened your eyes; made you see the world for what it really is, hasn't it?

You know it's changed; cast you aside like a stranger, holding you in its twisted grasp despite your pitiful attempts to free yourself. You're tired of fighting, aren't you? You've lost sight of what's important.

Then again, had you even seen it to begin with? If you were to be honest with yourself, is there a moment of importance buried within the depths of your memories?

Of course there is—you said so yourself, you used to be someone. You used to have a plan.

But what are plans but foolish dreams? Are they not but the carrot dangling on a thread before an ass? Always taunting, yet forever unattainable?

You don't know the answer, and, if you were truly honest with yourself, you never have. For you are that ass, aren't you? You've tried and failed to reach out and snatch the unreachable. You've fallen several times and tried to get back up. It was easy back then. You had the entire world as your handicap; they'd always do anything you'd ask, say anything you desired, simply because they, too, were blind.

No. That's not quite right, is it?

They saw the world for what it was, and willingly shut it out, simply for your benefit. You let them flood your vision—let them see for you, because they told you you would be someone. They told you you would matter.

And you, in your naïveté, believed them. You gave in to their childish predictions just to inflate that fragile thing you call an ego.

Look where that has taken you. Your crutch is gone—your eyes were forced to open and see the world for what it was; a cold, harsh reality that stings like a winter breeze against your cheek. You've been stripped bare, and that ego of yours has been hung out to dry.

That's when you realized it, wasn't it?

You decided you'd had enough. It was time to sever ties, you said—to close of that piece of you that modeled itself with their faulty praise. They were dead to you, and you to them. You weren't going to be blind anymore.

Yet, that thing called reality died with them, didn't it? As you walk through life, day by day, you feel as though it's all a haze. You no longer know the world as you once did.

You no longer know yourself.

Every stride, ever smile, every breath you take seems unfamiliar, as if you're no longer in control of your own body. Every word that leaves your lips is spoken in a voice you rarely, if ever, recognize.

Even your own name has estranged itself from you.

Which begs the ever-persistent question of who you actually are. If you were to strip yourself down to the basics of your existence, would you recognize the man underneath?

Would he recognize you? Would he care?

You don't answer that question.

Because you know.

You know the answer.

And that, perhaps, is the one and only thing you truly care about.

I dislike 2nd person perspective, but I feel it works rather well here.

Let me know what you think: Too long? Too short? Too abrupt? Too….odd?