These quiet streets echo with the clapping of my shoes against the unknowing asphalt. Somedays I wish the asphalt would listen to the feelings that my steps held, that the green shoots peaking through the cracks were meant as a message of hope. That troupe, the kid that didn’t grow up along the lines meant for them found solace in something blooming where it wasn’t meant to, was a comfort to my broiling mind. Only for the reason that it meant I wasn’t unique, that somewhere out there, some wild kid was trying to file their thoughts just as I had for years.

That brings up a weird one, uniqueness, we’re ordained from an early age in life to be unique, but there is no such thing. For everything you will taste, feel, see, or want for in your brief walk through this existence, at some point someone else, at some other time or some other place, has experienced and reacted to the same, or contextually close enough, stimulus as you had in a relatively comparable way.

Even as I write this with a tormented mind that wants to tell me that only ghosts will understand what I think and feel, I know that I am not the one to be unique, that time has passed. The time of tormented minds doing great things out of spite has well passed, now’s the time for efficiency, cleanliness, purity. Sadly the days of great emotion are gone, we will not reach the stars on spite, only cold blood will run in our descendants that will be dancing among the stars