|
The Hero
The Hero sits among the cloud of weather-ridden souls, thinking. His thoughts follow no clear path, but rather meander down well beloved corridors of his mind and new heights of insight. They seem to drift aimlessly like the moist, thick air around him. He sees faces, hears voices, wanders the path of the nostalgic and stares into the bright face of hope.
Inside his mind, and his heart is peace, contentment, a life worth living.
A whistle blows, a car screechs, a baby cries.
He opens his eyes and as he looks about his heart fades. All around him lies the squalor of self-indulgence and of laziness, a hell on earth for those who strive for happiness. Every man, woman, and child is painted in the pale color of pneumonia. Sickness of mind, body, and spirit is everywhere.
As he sits and waits, he is not alone. A woman and her child sit next to him. They bear the kiss of disease all over their bodies, shivering beneath the cold and a racking cough.
The Hero's bus arrives. He enters shivering for lack of a coat. Not for lack of money but for lack of selfish inhibition
A man leaves at peace and a woman and her child walk home in warmth.
__________________
Grasp life for death is at hand ...
-Mr. Arson
|
