Chapter 1: An Angel In The Making - A New Beginning
Everyone passes him by. Pushing and pulling. Some apologise, others mutter a curse under their breaths before continuing on with their harried rush. Multitudes of unfamiliar faces glanced past, not stopping to take a closer look. Glaringly reminding him of the obvious fact;
The world don't revolve around you, buddy.
The clutter of human traffic edges past by. Some rush by hurriedly, anxious not to miss the evening bus, for if they did, they would have to wait another hour for the next ride.
An hour's wait in time, an eternity of opportunities missed.
Only an old man lumbers past taking his time. Clothes tattered, he does not run the urgent run that everyone else does. The street is his home, the papers his cot. The streetlamps his light, the stale leftovers from the cornerside bakery his daily bread. He does not hurry to grasp the things that others clamour for. Money, fame, precious gems.
He is contented in having enough to eat and watching the world unfold as a play unfolds in the grand theatre of life. And as the evening sun sets and the crowds filter past, slowly he ambles past in anticipation for the upcoming mealtime. A simple filling of an empty stomach. Bit by bit he edges past, till even he too fades into the shadows of the evening.
And the world don't revolve around me either.
The streets are empty, save for a single entity. No more than a person, no less than a soul. From the morning rush to the old man; all of it is still fresh in his mind. The old man interests him more.
For contentment is rare where there are many to grasp, many to master. But if even in poverty one seeks fulfilment over possession, then could the whole world be wrong where one man stands right?
A scream cuts through the silence like a hot knife through butter. It is the cry of the old man; a desperate plea for help, an urging for rescue.
And yet no harm comes to him. Rubbing his eyes and glancing furtively, the old man chides himself that it was only an illusion.
Reassured, the old man continues his trek, his frail eyes unable to catch the splatter of discoloured ichor in the alleyway. Unaware, he moves on to another meal. Unaware, he lives to see another sunrise.
Tonight the streets are cold and unforgiving. Tonight the hunt starts.
The world don't revolve around you, buddy.
The clutter of human traffic edges past by. Some rush by hurriedly, anxious not to miss the evening bus, for if they did, they would have to wait another hour for the next ride.
An hour's wait in time, an eternity of opportunities missed.
Only an old man lumbers past taking his time. Clothes tattered, he does not run the urgent run that everyone else does. The street is his home, the papers his cot. The streetlamps his light, the stale leftovers from the cornerside bakery his daily bread. He does not hurry to grasp the things that others clamour for. Money, fame, precious gems.
He is contented in having enough to eat and watching the world unfold as a play unfolds in the grand theatre of life. And as the evening sun sets and the crowds filter past, slowly he ambles past in anticipation for the upcoming mealtime. A simple filling of an empty stomach. Bit by bit he edges past, till even he too fades into the shadows of the evening.
And the world don't revolve around me either.
The streets are empty, save for a single entity. No more than a person, no less than a soul. From the morning rush to the old man; all of it is still fresh in his mind. The old man interests him more.
For contentment is rare where there are many to grasp, many to master. But if even in poverty one seeks fulfilment over possession, then could the whole world be wrong where one man stands right?
A scream cuts through the silence like a hot knife through butter. It is the cry of the old man; a desperate plea for help, an urging for rescue.
And yet no harm comes to him. Rubbing his eyes and glancing furtively, the old man chides himself that it was only an illusion.
Reassured, the old man continues his trek, his frail eyes unable to catch the splatter of discoloured ichor in the alleyway. Unaware, he moves on to another meal. Unaware, he lives to see another sunrise.
Tonight the streets are cold and unforgiving. Tonight the hunt starts.
posted by Windez at 12:17 AM
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