A World of Dystopia

There has been one time I feel I have owned a world, and there many times I see my world crumbled. Time flips to a decrepit age entirely strange to me. Upon a barren land I stand; before my eyes are no longer chrysanthemums, nor cherry blossoms, but tawny grasses all drooping their heads, bearing the burden of countless dilapidated, dusty concrete tiles. I begin to fear. I hope desperately to find a butterfly, or to be one myself, but soon give up after several trials of aimless sprints.

Rains fall. I remember how pleasant it was to saunter along a foreign street under little showers, watching the emotionless faces, some in formal attires, some in flashy makeups, all flocking towards the same station. Seeing such a lively, realistic human episode, I would sneer at the living dead, jaunt at the meaninglessness of their lives, and despised at those who did not savvy what lives had meant to them. I stretch my hands out, trying to hold the raindrops on my palms. At the moment the dew befalls the tips of my fingers, my fleshes are as if scalded by some corrosives, and some indescribable pain pierces into my heart. The grass, the tiles, and everything are melting into course yellow sand of desert. I immediately have my hooded coat on, and scurry for a shelter from the erosive drops.

From my back some miles away I see a stony cave. Without a second thought I make a dash into it. Weird. Why does a cave exist in this world of nothingness? I take off my nylon, blue backpack with a number of tiny holes, and unzip it to look for something useful in this decaying world, and yet I find my bag is empty. You know it is impossible for a bookworm not to take at least one book along with him. Even BOOKS have betrayed me. WORDS and CHARACTERS have betrayed me. What I wrote and read of yore have all been forgotten. An illiterate. A man of helplessness. A vagabond with a wandering soul. I see my passionate, expressive face turns stern and heartless. I have now been warped into a hollow shell – a shell with dark suit, black leather shoes, and black suitcase, crowding into a station called hell.

[Painting source: https://janetthomas.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/joseph-mallord-william-turner-rain-steam-and-speed-the-great-western-railway.jpg%5D

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