The bars outside of my window seem sometimes like bars on the door of a jail cell; only not that dramatic. Building after building, floor after floor, person after person muttering around like lonely puppets on strigngs. I feel as though I should be writing to you that there are other parts of the world where the skyline isn't littered with concrete and glass, or how the children of another country have never heard of such a thing as Starbucks. But it seems as though I've become quite the cynic these days. As I face the concrete skyline to my left, the words seem to escape my body, my very soul. I was once the kind of writer everyone aspired to be, people would dream about the metaphors and similes I would conjure up from the central nervous system of myself and my sanity. Yet, something has changed. I was once the one holding the petition sign, now I'm the one quickening my pace as to seem in too much of a hurry to listen to what they have to say. Yes, something has certainly changed.
The world doesn't stop for people like me, it passes by and whispers, "Nothing come easily, and nothing is as it seems..." And I haven't a clue what any of this means.
A bird emerges from a place that I cannot see, and suddenly, there's a break in all of this monotony.
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