Solely, The Soul walks through
the street of bricks, guiding him to rest. Beyond that warm-blanketed
afternoon, he wonders the days before the star falling. The days where
complication is unheard and joys would not have floated in ease. Pure, hope it
whispers.
Encompassed by the sephia-colored sky, fragment of memories flash before his mind. In
confusion, he peels out the truth from its flesh, then trying to reverse the
pieces into senses. Deeds are under the fence, yet the fences are corrosive.
The land is allowed to be awful. Questions burst.
Do we act? Or do we portray those
chemical reactions? Or do we portray our own determined fate?
The Soul, as one of The
Portrayals, is sometimes losing the ground to stand. Sometimes, The Ones who
raised his wings are weakened. Somehow, The Chain he believes is collapsing. He
wishes a Pure whispering through the silence, telling him it’s not a sentence
for questioning but it’s a sin for doing nothing.
We are nothing but A Portrayal.
We portray several roles, some of us are not even aware when portraying their
last role, until a final holds us to the last breath.
