Appears in my eyes the vague silhouette of a man shrugging his shoulders, picking up every pieces of his broken heart, and embracing himself in the dark cold corner street of the city of individualism. The moon and the stars refuse to shed their lights in his ways, so the man walks like a blind not knowing where and which way to go.
Silence of the night reigns his way and only the noise of stillness he hears. But as he walks, his ears hearken people calling his name, beckoning him. But as he tries to utter words, they ignore his language and they vanish like phantoms leaving the echoes of their deriding voices and evil laughs.
He departs with his melancholy heart, continues his way and he passes under the tunnel. He sees his jubilant beloved ones chattering, and playing but when he endeavors to embrace them, they sift through his arms like ghosts rest in sweet heavens.
He is on his fragile and flimsy knees when the freezing wind blows stronger and the hefty rain showers him. “Life is painful than death,” he screams his heart but still, no one dares to give a damn seconds not even a second for him. He surrenders himself into deep slumber to shut his eyes in the intricate trouble he has when his sense of sight is on.
I feel the kiss of the sun and tears fall down in my eyes as in my sight appears the silhouette of a man shrugging his shoulders, picking up every pieces of his broken heart, and embracing himself in the cold corner street of the city of individualism is no other than but I.
