Disechanted with the world, I find myself drifting through a sea of faces, wondering of the story behind each, but wondering if I have the commitment to listen and care; to heal the wounds deep inside, hidden behind the oblique and decidedly dark shadows. I find myself seeing each face that passes me by as the missed opportunity that it represents, and know that I am again missing out on so much, but wishing that I could continue to be the friend that I need to be; the friend that I no longer am. With that comes the realisation that the majority of my life can't exist the way it has anymore; it's a relic in a new age, gathering dust, preparing to be viewed like a trophy in a museum. Basically, I cannot serve others if I cannot serve myself. I feel the gnawing emptiness inside me continue to ebb, slowly growing with each passing day as I see the disillusionment inside of me grow into a festering mass. For, there are, you see, many reasons for this hole, and many reasons for this dark pallor which grows ever darker. I have seen the work of my life seemingly torn asunder, and the majority of my long held beliefs tested against many hammers of logic and reason, to which the defense of faith has little merit. It occurs to me that there is no such thing as the greater good.

The friendships that have been held so dear to my heart crumble, relentlessly, and I am left, again, powerless to prevent the decay; questions of the future and their longevity and relative importance overshadow the benefit of the here and now. I see how they fall and how the love I feel will be brutally throw asunder. Worst of it is, I realise that I am not as able to help those dear to me through their trials and tribulations as they have helped me, and this leaves me sickened and empty inside. Perhaps it is because of this that I can expect nobody to take notice of these words that I write, preferring to indulge in some other activity than provide me with the little time I request. Even so, I stay true to this hope, that one day it will be noticed and recorded, my humble efforts to explicate the state of the human condition.

I have seen that there is no such thing as the communal good, and that the work of my hands may never change the world, or even those close to me, so I am tempted to quit trying to be a light to any who will see it, for those people are few and far between. And this in itself leads me to see that there are few people in this world willing to brave the gauntlet of public opinion and stand up for themselves, for that which they believe in, for the force of self-interest will more often than not get in the way of true communal benefit. I am one of them. I realise that I will be the only one to scratch my back, with an implement that I have purchased, for that specific task. Either way, nobody will do it for me. Put simply, I am alone in this vast world, and I am unable to cope with the suggestion of that harsh reality.

There is, indeed, a thinly held tenet in this world called morality, shrinking ever smaller day by day, becoming more like a sliver of hope than the pillar of justice it used to be in the days of my parents. I see the system of the world's accepted society in my day to day life; play witness to the havoc it wreaks. I have become acutely aware of the fact that images of depravity, decadence, and despair are beamed and reflected to me on a daily basis, begging me to do something about it, mocking me, telling me I never will. The cycle of the catch-22 rotates and I realise that I am stuck in the system, and I won't be able to change it from within or without: it is hopeless to flow against the tide of world opinion. Therefore, communism is wrong, and capitalism is perfect, and I will be ostracized for believing otherwise.

The faith I have held so dear to my heart is now being questioned by those forces of logic and reason, and I find no way to calm my poorly allayed conscience. I call myself a believer, yet am unable to answer the most basic questions of the uninitiated. I see how those who hold on to my faith so wholeheartedly hurt and cause interminable pain, perhaps blindly, and wonder if I'm not the same, despite all the efforts to be a good person. Yet, I must stick to my vow of silence or be expelled from care and rehabilitated till I am 'clean'. There is hypocrisy in my faith, plenty of it, and I see that the dividing line between me and the next person remains to be identified clearly. I see my own corruption and realise I'm not that different from those I claim to despise. And of course, at this instant, the blinding spotlight is turned back onto me, and I realise that I am not living the way I should, could, be. Does that mean I am at fault? Am I at fault because I question, or is there room in the FAQ section for such pertinent questions as these?

I see the constraints of my culture, and interpret how I am trapped by them, unable to taste the liberalism of the world as I please, even in my maturity. I see it as a system designed to enslave me, pull me down, and I long to free myself from it, pushing me to contemplate the idea of running away from it to any lad distant and free, if such a place does indeed exist. .

But perhaps, of all these phantoms and evils, what sickens me the most is the fact that I cannot propel myself to be the person that I want to be, leading me to think that perhaps m destiny does not lie in my own hands, but has been pre-determined before me. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, but it brings the feeling that I am doomed to walk in someone else's shadow for the rest of eternity. The long-held view that I am indeed special gains it's importance here, but it is only farcical, for the fact will remain; I am disillusioned with the world around me. I am turning into the monster inside of me, and by the looks of it, there is nothing that can be done to stop the change. Living inside the constraints of my walls, I see the padding come closer to me, trapping me, and making me push for the answer to my questions.

It is an answer I cannot find.

ONE-SHOT Sick of myself and the world around me.