The Unnamed feeling

Chapter 1
Things.

...It was 1am, and the last recesses of spring were being eaten away slowly by the rolling summer heat. It was a Sunday night, so the whole world seemed to be asleep. The sky was clear and there was little light pollution in this remote part of the world, revealing an abstract canvas painted blue/black with pinpricks of light scattered across it in the sky, a painting of unreserved beauty exclusively reserved to the lonely few who would be out at that time of night to observe it. A perfectly full moon illuminated a single unterraced house in the middle of an unattractive skip directly below. The house was small and seemed to be comprised mainly if not entirely by recycled materials, held up apparently by the optimism of the people who lived in it alone. Sat beneath the light, on a wet windowsill of the house was a hunched looking figure, looking worn and beaten like a weathered old man although on closer inspection he could be little older than 18 years old.
He sat silently, gazing up at the sky with admiration, while thinking hard. The figure, dressed in no more than a black hoody and jeans, with white trainers, wasn't a natural thinker. He had always tricked himself to believe he could write a work of literature worthy of critical acclaim one day, and that he simply had to discover how to tap the unique talent he must contain within his thoughts. However, even he began to see through his delusions when he sat there, staring at a single individual white dot in the sky, when all he could think was ''How does it feel when your 75, and your having sex knowing its going to be the last time ever?'' He paused and scoured his brain with a fine nit comb for a good, structured answer to this, but nothing came. Not even a stupid answer. His brain was either too tired to think or it had lost the will to live and died. Suddenly without warning it darted to the next thought.
After a good couple of minutes of thinking irrational, unhealthy thoughts, all the while looking blankly at the single star, that said or did nothing the whole time he sat there, he delved into his trouser pocket and brought forth a box of cigarettes and a lighter. If he couldn't think like an intellectual, he could do much less than look like one, he though as he filled his lungs with cancer.
Maybe there’s a reason why writers and smokers are one of the same, he pondered. If he had been poetic in any way, he would have realised from the idleness of his mind and the feeling he got from looking up at the stars that he was suffering from a physiological condition known as loneliness. He would then have contemplated his insignificance in the world, the minute spark his life would be compared to the eternal flame of everything, the pointlessness of his life therefore, the rather rude and suspicious absence of god, the curiosity and wisdom if not downright stupidity and hopefulness of quantum physics, the possibility of life away from earth, the idea that the whole world is an illusion and we are being kept away from the real world for our own safety… He could feel his mind gradually fall deeper and deeper into deepness, considering for a fleeting moment that the meaning of life is simply to interact with the world so that it is acknowledged, on the grounds that if nothing knew the universe existed, would it exist? If the whole universe is conceptual and not real, as it seems, the idea that for nothing to exist with order, matter and chaos must exist to compare this too and therefore the universe was created out of the fact there has to be a universe in order for there to be no universe in the first place...
…Had he been a good poetic thinker, He would have jotted this down in a notepad. Then he would have contemplated it further, adding developments and… plot twists, then would have expressed these feelings and thoughts and be freed from them. But no, he was not that sort of thinker. His unique physiology meant instead of doing anything creative with his mind, (which was as unique and free as everybody else’s), he would simply be distracted by something and move on to the next fascinating thing. he would forever look at a cheese biscuit and wonder why someone decided it had to have little dimples punched into it then dart across a room to observe a new light bulb and wonder at the name of the person who designed the cardboard box it came in, and how he came to have such a useless job. His mind was erratic. His thoughts seemed to come out of a dark and foreboding hole, where thoughts were chucked at him from inside out of spite. It was like a jungle with a million insect buzzing around whispering concepts, ideas, inspiration into his ear, while at the same time none of them worked together to come up with a sentence worth of intellect. Thoughts added up as a crazy mosaic of pieces of things he had heard, read, been told, glanced at in newspapers such as slogans and names, or that were spawned by some unsavoury gland in his trousers or worse, in his head.
As the air around him became thick and Smokey, he closed his eyes for a moment. He was completely alone. Under the influence of tobacco he was content with himself and his life, he could have died right there, right now, on the spot, flat, and would have been completely happy. His mind still buzzed, but he could block it out now. It was like dope or ritalin, it brought him onto a different level, one where he could be more content. He could think straight, how he had always ridden through life bareback and without boundaries, and he could think about his many friends. He was young and things could only get better. He opened his eyes and stood, looking up again to the sky, to the one insignificant star in the sky which his eyes his eyes were always drawn too... and smiled. He paced forward and leant against a car door that had been stuck into the ground as a fence by his mother. looking away from the star, into the distance, with a semi-smile of indifference, he sighed and exclaimed to himself “Life is amazing, I don‘t need the answers.”
Suddenly, that thought ended. The universe fell apart around him spiralling and howling like a shot down spitfire. A piercing shot of pain like he had never before encountered engulfed him, taking his breath away. An icy coldness and fear overcame his sences. He clutched at his back and felt a solid object protruding from it at an angle, wedged deep into his upper back and shoulder. Blood flowed down his hoody from the area and scattered across the ground. In panic, he tried to get away and but was kicked violently down face first to the ground. His mind span in all directions like angered swarms of wasps. His vision was fading, but he could make out the floor that was inches away from his face. He tried to scream but his gurgling cries were muffled by a gloved palm and by blood gushing up his windpipe at high pressure. His mind, crazy and erratic, began to slow. His muffled screams became faint muffled whimpers, then gasps, and then nothing. The insects that lived inside his head began retreating into the recesses of the forest of his brain, weakened by loss of oxygen, until there wasn’t even the faint hum of a lone bee. Gone were the thoughts of what having sex for the last time at 75 would be like, he would never know. The figure, who’s name was John Pierce, lay face down with a knife protruding from his back. And that’s how he was found the next morning, just a few feet outside his house, basking face down in the morning sun.