A traveler trudges through the plains and hills.
No clear line ahead.
None except for the thread that we tread cautiously on.
A quietness that echoes all around.
Always boundlessly bouncing off the shredded walls.
There’s something amiss in the background.
A lively argument or debate only just beginning.
Ready to explode into rambunctiously youthful battles.
Sets of friends who you’ve lost.
Lost in a sea of personal preoccupations.
Young daydreams weaponized into teetering nightmares.
A reality where rallies of cries never seem to stop.
Escaping to a room that is hollow, unattended to.
There’s no crying in the place of abandoned childhoods.
It’s a time to either refuse to age with the others.
Or to stay in the same step you’ve lost yourself in.
The walls are caving in but it’s not a disturbance.
Not anymore will these disappointments get a reaction.
There is yelling far off in the little neighborhoods.
Somewhere we try to never travel to.
A scream for something or another, an instigation.
But then we step aside into our little room.
The muffled sounds become much more than noise.
They are noises of the hundreds of hours wasted away.