The dreams are what get me. I thought the alcohol would alleviate the soul-crushing guilt that was sprawled across my shoulders. Only, the booze and the consequential public degradation of my character just packed on the weight. My spine is bent from too much regret; I am Atlas plagued with arthritis.
I weep for this city. They all walk around with their wide eyes staring away from the darkness surrounding them. Corrupt politicians promise economic growth and gun control; all we hear are short-handed vows and false truths. And these people avert their gaze to televisions and gossip magazines, refusing to acknowledge the wasteland this place has become. It reeks of pestilence, pining for revolution and change.
My nostrils fill with the stench. It creeps into my nasal cavity and spreads like a disease. Seeping into my lungs, infecting my heart, filling my mind with wishes of redemption. I cling to it in desperation. How can I help those who do not wish to be helped? How do you corral animals in the wild?
A scream echoes off the walls, maybe a woman in trouble; the angry shouts of fighting men drift out from an alleyway; crying children's voices carry from splintered windows in dimly lit apartments. And the nightmares of raging fires swallowing angels on a snowy night; devils swooping in on babies and stealing them away to Hell; the nightmares that woke me up with cold sweats and a marathon heartbeat.
The dreams haunt me, the memories choke me, the reality drives me. I am alone in the fight. Someone's got to do it. Someone has to stand up to the tyrannical nature of this establishment. I'm no hero. I'm no martyr. I'm just tired.
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