Mr.Burke
Active Member
- Local time
- Today 11:09 AM
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2009
- Messages
- 136
There was a man. He was misunderstood, beaten, oppressed, shaken, manipulated, betrayed, and exiled. Lying on the floor, his face was bloody and mutilated. In that scene, he suddenly understood. It all fit together. It was so simple this whole time, he knew it, but it seemed too obvious to say. And no one would listen still.
There was a man. He was a secretive man. People didn't know him, he didn't know people. A cloak was what he wore. He saw that man being beaten. He watched in silence. He saw when he was being lied to. He watched in silence. He saw what other people ran from, what they were addicted to, what they tried to erase. An observer. He was not one to share his findings. He saw a crying woman. He continued walking. He saw a misguided hooligan. He continued walking. He saw a fine American citizen, he continued walking. As he continued to observe these people existing in the world he strode through, he seemed to hear voices that were living in the wind. His pace became faster. He seemed to be running from something. There were kids playing in a field. There was a car with music playing. Someone said goodbye to their friend. He started walking faster, and faster. Eventually his walk became a jog. His jog a sprint. The world around him started to distort. He felt as if he was slowly ceasing to exist. He had never existed to begin with. This was a fact yet it was contradictory. He was clearly alive, and was in a real world. He looked at his hands and saw a stranger.
There was a man. That man went along in life as he saw fit. He did not feel the need to change what was right for him. But other people did not think that his life was right for him. It was not right for them, so it must not be right for him. Accepting the days with contempt. That's what he supposedly amounted to. You do what you want, as long as it does not involve me. That was the message he read on the wall. Though it was worst than that. And seldom better.
There was a man. One day he woke up. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what was going on. He didn't get why he was here. Walking from where he awoke, he studied his environment curiously. Though he was walking through a schoolyard, there was not a child in sight, but there was someone looking away. He felt as if maybe this person could inform him of why he was here or where he was, so he eagerly approached the man. The man was wearing a cloak in spite of the broad daylight. He didn't seem to be a part of the place in which he was standing. Awkwardly, the man asked the cloaked figure if he could help him.
There was a man. That man fell to his knees that day. The cloaked figure turned and looked down upon him. The figure did not feel pity. He did not feel remorse. When the kneeling man looked up, he got a glimpse of the figure's face. It felt familiar to him. It was bleeding and badly cut. The kneeling man opened his mouth very slowly, as if to cry out in horror at what he saw. He wasn't able to make a sound. The cloaked figure did not permit him to. The cloaked figure fixed his hands around the submissive one's neck and looked into his eyes, and what he saw was always there without a name. But one thing was for certain. What he saw reflected in those eyes that day was not a man.
So tell me. What was reflected in those eyes?
There was a man. He was a secretive man. People didn't know him, he didn't know people. A cloak was what he wore. He saw that man being beaten. He watched in silence. He saw when he was being lied to. He watched in silence. He saw what other people ran from, what they were addicted to, what they tried to erase. An observer. He was not one to share his findings. He saw a crying woman. He continued walking. He saw a misguided hooligan. He continued walking. He saw a fine American citizen, he continued walking. As he continued to observe these people existing in the world he strode through, he seemed to hear voices that were living in the wind. His pace became faster. He seemed to be running from something. There were kids playing in a field. There was a car with music playing. Someone said goodbye to their friend. He started walking faster, and faster. Eventually his walk became a jog. His jog a sprint. The world around him started to distort. He felt as if he was slowly ceasing to exist. He had never existed to begin with. This was a fact yet it was contradictory. He was clearly alive, and was in a real world. He looked at his hands and saw a stranger.
There was a man. That man went along in life as he saw fit. He did not feel the need to change what was right for him. But other people did not think that his life was right for him. It was not right for them, so it must not be right for him. Accepting the days with contempt. That's what he supposedly amounted to. You do what you want, as long as it does not involve me. That was the message he read on the wall. Though it was worst than that. And seldom better.
There was a man. One day he woke up. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what was going on. He didn't get why he was here. Walking from where he awoke, he studied his environment curiously. Though he was walking through a schoolyard, there was not a child in sight, but there was someone looking away. He felt as if maybe this person could inform him of why he was here or where he was, so he eagerly approached the man. The man was wearing a cloak in spite of the broad daylight. He didn't seem to be a part of the place in which he was standing. Awkwardly, the man asked the cloaked figure if he could help him.
There was a man. That man fell to his knees that day. The cloaked figure turned and looked down upon him. The figure did not feel pity. He did not feel remorse. When the kneeling man looked up, he got a glimpse of the figure's face. It felt familiar to him. It was bleeding and badly cut. The kneeling man opened his mouth very slowly, as if to cry out in horror at what he saw. He wasn't able to make a sound. The cloaked figure did not permit him to. The cloaked figure fixed his hands around the submissive one's neck and looked into his eyes, and what he saw was always there without a name. But one thing was for certain. What he saw reflected in those eyes that day was not a man.
So tell me. What was reflected in those eyes?
