Week 11 last prompt

He knew enough about words not to trust them; he loved them too much to trust them 


He had always thought that the human mind was the most fascinating place on the planet. He thought that all thoughts were great ones, and that all conversations that were had meant something. When he was young he was naive, he thought that everything really did happen for a reason. He was enthusiastic. He believed in good. He maybe even thought that people weren't good because they were avoiding the consequences of being bad; he thought they were good because they just were. 
Getting older hadn't helped his spirit. He would wake up and tell himself it'd be a great day. He'd go to sleep thinking, "Well, today wasn't great, but tomorrow would be!". He'd wake up every day and hope for the best. Disappointment accompanied him to bed every night. 
Suddenly the days started getting longer and he started seeing things less bright. In the morning he used to wake up and go out into the world with all he had. Now all he wants to do is sleep; now he wakes up and feels like he never slept at all. 
People tell him that things will be alright; people tell him that it's just a rough patch he's going through. But nothing seems to get better. He's constantly comparing his life to other's. He is never content. He's never happy. 
He enjoyed to write about people who were happy. The words he wrote were untrue; he knew that it was fiction. He knew his stories weren't real. 
But with everything he wrote, he knew that he was further away from the happiness he searched. They were too sweet to believe. He wanted them to be true so badly, but his spirit told him that there was nothing he could do.