A glimmer of the sun in the corner of one’s eye. A brief sigh before the brisk wind flows by, eyes averted from the vivid blue sky. Solely to observe, rather not to serve upon the fields below. The grass in the distance rustles underneath, tumbling below, a solitary leaf, carried by the whipping winds yonder. Do I not only exist here to be separated, a desire to be unsated by the masses, and naught to do but to sit and watch the ticking time as it marches on forward? Though the thought passes along as a leaf on the breeze, such a thought exists only to displease my complacent self in the face of activity.
What is it to write? To pour one’s emotion upon a page, a shrouded actor upon a paper stage.
Sat in rows, a room of white, peeking windows glistened with light. Trees hang above to the side, leaves of green gifted with dry hints of brown and yellow; a hue both living and dying. Standing buildings to the distance, rising monoliths of earth and stone, devoid completely of signs of life, but sublime in the light of the sun. I hold my pen, paper to the side. I look to the distance, but I cannot move, my emotion locked behind a steel cage, unable to write upon any page.
Thus my stage is but only for fools.