text: Blooming orchards used to surround him. Sounds so distant, yet so vibrant, resonating inside of his head. Each step, each movement, luring all cares away - no longer a worry. He peered around out of his hoodie, sun gleaming, grass swaying - but so much grey. It’s not how it once was. The trees wail; begging for mercy. The rain no longer restores, but only drowns. Tyranny. Had he anymore hope, no longer would he dream, but instead act. But it was too late. The good times were over - the world was not the same. The faces of those who stray through the lonely paths so soulless - blank, pale. Where had it all gone, the people, for they were no different to ghosts. This is exactly where he knew, he was alone. A speck of dust in an endless universe. It was all taken from him. The wonder, the curiosity, it no longer mattered, as they had stolen it all. In his head, he does question if it had to be this way - so organised, so regimented. The lack of beauty and creativity took a heavy toll on his mind. This town was beautiful once, but, along with all else, that had withered away. Further down the path, his old school. He still remembered those smiling faces. She had the most memorable smile of all. Even amongst the monochrome, she was colour. A beacon. Someone who resonated hope - an aura of golden warmth. Pointless - they’d always find out. She couldn’t stay this way, but who could. Like tears falling down my page, the ink smearing, they’d find a way to ruin the art. The letters caving inwards, each line bending and swaying - no longer reaching any clarity. The freedom and life within the page was evanescent. These, ‘intrusions’, were the root cause of the sickness. He would no longer see a glow, because they had stolen it. Who are we? And who is he? It’s clear he doesn’t accept the blame for this - but the hypocrisy is an invisible dagger, being pushed further and further into him. Who else could be the cause but him? The ghosts on the street? The thieves who never cease from taking more? Unbeknownst to him, he is a thief. This grey, this fog, he is the very matter it is made from. Maybe he is not entirely accountable, as he is just a simple piece within a machine. Nevertheless, even one bolt coming loose can send trauma, shockwaves, throughout even the whole skeleton. However, if he doesn’t change, he may as well be another blood cell surging through the thief’s body. To accept, or defy, is the dilemma faced by every cell. Acceptance leads to easy comfort. Defiance is never so simple. He might be seen as a lonesome virus, soon to be ensnared by carnivorous antibodies. But there is always light after such a struggle. You might be like her - a hopeful radiation, changing someone's very matter, letting them see their own chains. You might turn into him - reminiscing the morning dew and sunlight, but failing to wake up in time to experience it.