i walked through my door, and somehow ended on the wrong side of the world. i remember being a child, but these hands of mine don’t look familar. i look into a shaking puddle in between the lanes of a road, and find a withered, weak woman. on my forehead is constitution. cars pass by, yet they never hit me. its like a dream where the world is functional by laws and rules, by expectations and requirements. there are no more ideas, no more innocence that of a child. there are no more birds, instead the bones left to fade away into the grass. the people who walk on this world are not the same, yet they try to be. they have fear in their eyes, and truth on their lips, but their hands are chained to the ground. they walk only so far, and whisper to another, only to fear of hope escaping into the open air. there are no more laughter, that’s what. there is fear. and it can’t be more clear than what i saw, even in myself, the words burning consitution.

as i walk further past, i realise that there are no more homes. i look behind me, and the house i used to live in burns down to the ground. there are flames, but no fumes, as if even the fire were afraid of someone finding out it couldnt be contained. so it stays, and it burns and burns, never estinguishing. much the burn in everyone else’s heart.

further down there are beggars. they hold cups in their hands, tears running down their faces. their faces have turned black, their hands burned left to show just veins. they have babies beside them, all crying. "Let us have hope for the future. Let’s not obligate to the fault." I look inside my pocket and find money, so much it never stops. I realise that when i put some inside their cup, it dissolves, left as dust right at the bottom. There is something more they needed, even i couldn’t see it in their eyes. Money kept falling from my pockets, but i had run out of hope to give these people. 

 As i begin to run from the truth, i see war. People now don’t only die in the hands of others, they die in their own. Time becomes frozen, as if it had no control of itself. Those who tried to hang keep hanging, holding their last breath for eternity. Those who cut kept bleeding. Those who drowned still gasped. Those who punished, well, kept punishing.


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