The talons of the day sink through tattered flesh to rest in the bones below. Strangers pass by, refusing to acknowledge the shrieks of pain and pleas for aide. They are strangers after all. What business is it of theirs? They remind themselves of their own struggles and miseries to fend off and quickly scurry away to their fluorescent rooms of shadow.
“Pick yourself up,” they mumble. “Help yourself,” they admonish. “You must not want success/health/power/prosperity badly enough,” they lie.
The shackles of the day chain tired feet to the burning pavement. The heat radiates upwards as the boiling whirlpool of swirling hate and ambivalence welcome the sinking flesh. Strangers jump over, and sidestep to avoid frantic hands scrambling for purchase to keep from being swallowed. They are strangers after all. What business is it of theirs?
“You got yourself into this mess,” they mumble. “You can get yourself out,” they admonish. “You must not want to survive badly enough,” they lie.
The night at the end of the long day crushes against the horizon and lays waste to all the light had dared to touch. Strangers stumble and fall, but refuse to offer guiding hands or work together. They are strangers after all.
“This is your fault,” they mumble. “You could make a light if you applied yourself,” they admonish. “We can find our way perfectly fine without you,” they lie.