Sometimes I prefer my solitude.
My story isn’t of that much importance. The people; the dragging souls that leave streaks of decaying youth on the polished cement, they’re the ones whose stories bear the worthiness of attention. The monotony and routine weigh them down whilst they stand still in a pool of quicksand, known as Life. Each moment they give from their lives is paid, but only for a brief moment, the same monetary paper they were given is then again passed on, buying back seconds, minutes to years of their lives.
The wretched souls secure their masks on their faces every morning, telling themselves it’s ok. Where they are, whether by choice or by someone else’s, defines their very character. Each trait sticks to them without the slightest idea of how or why it is to be that way. Their minds wander as proof of survival skills. They glance at those willing to not put their mask on and in typical fashion they reach out to them, to encourage a life protected by this mask. A mask with 3 pinholes—pinholes that aren’t there to help you see, or breathe, but to limit you. To tamper with your vision, to blind you; to cover your mouth, to silence you. These are the humans who left Plato’s cave, yet they still cover their faces, choosing their star-crossed fate.
I walk parallel with these same troubled souls. The very energy and fabric of my being, slowly drained each minute that passes.
