The figure stands alone

I look. I look at this figure at first glance a respectable soul. Some would say a distinguished soul, yet I sense something is not right with its soul. Its large white eyes peep at the wonders of my home. It holds its head low and stiffly, an eyebrow slightly raised staying alert of any prying eyes. Its chest beats harder and harder. Its pulse rises higher and higher. Anxiety runs blood red through it’s face. Its vice like grip grasps its grey expensively tasteless briefcase, held tightly against its beating breast. Alone it stands in place bustling with mischievous people.

It is the single oxygen molecule amongst a sea of carbon dioxide, waiting to be breathed in. Red light, not pure like the white light we know and love, for that does not exist in a place like this. It is slowly choked out until its presence is out of all recollection. A faithless mist of red, dirt and corruption has taken its place, the mist thriving in the darkness of the underbelly of society. The lifeless black misty sky gazes high above the unbiblical action of the figures below, the all seeing, Serengeti like barren wasteland dotted with precious jewels. Sparkling white, pure.

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I sanctimoniously scan the fidgeting figure. My attention is always aware of unwanted sirens that often plague this place but I endeavour to not let them hinder my work. Two tall objects with thick, withered skin with huge gaping cracks, which would make the Grand Canyon blush. Long, hard erect body with an umbrella of thin, multiple rods. Strangely attached with inverted green hearts dotted around the reaching rods; the two objects engaged in a courtship dance. Moving with the rhythm of Gods breath. One tiptoes and dances away but sways back. Yet, the figure waits anxiously for his turn at courtship.

Numerous metallic posts litter the district, enabling sight where sight is not needed. Light in its purest form does not exist here, just a cancerous substitute, just like the people the figure is waiting for. The black, dark, and sightlessness of the night opening the gateway for nefarious behaviour, but even the evilest people need light to show them the way to see, but sometimes you can see too much. A small quantity of light is enough to turn a client back to his pure roots. Nevertheless, often its desires run too deep to be thwarted by such a minor thing as conscience.

Only the purity of his soul can prevail, to bring him back to righteousness. I look at the figures anxiety rising, it fidgets as if it is insane, it no longer stands but passes up the cold dreary streets. The first glance of respectability is no more it is tainted. I can’t or maybe I dare not fathom what it is. A crowd of eroded bricks and derelict buildings surround listening constantly, waiting for the next being to ejaculate their souls to the blind ladies of the night; we only see Queen’s heads on crumpled paper, not crumpled personalities on frail skin.

Yet, the small figure waits anxiously, playing with the locked locks on his briefcase. The grey solid streets run like a river of corruption assimilates the light. The curb crawling fat cats waiting to pick up their suspecting prey. Each one with its own individual taste. Puddles of personality infected slime; lay visions of waterholes for straying beasts. I look at the figure of a small frail man stands, anxiously waiting for his lady of the night, awaiting his pleasures of the flesh.

The figures chubby, friendly exterior becomes more apparent. Perhaps in a different form he is a respected man, a biblical saint. Yet, within this form, deep inside, the desires of a demon, the Ying and yang of humanity, the duality of man; good and evil. I look at the small, shining and shimmering bald patch, glowing in the cancerous light of the district. His thoughts controlled by his desires, mastering but corrupt and controlling cerebrum, and finally acted out here. He wonders aimlessly, has the red light turned green yet?

As he knows, he risks his powerful title to enter the realm of the lawless, but he is overpowered by something. The head knitted with sporadic clumps of lifeless silver hair. The hair woven with characteristics of an old fox trying to be a young sprightly puppy. The old frail figure trying to rejuvenate himself with youth. With a forehead, wrinkled over with the years of worry and loneliness. Jet black eyebrows are as artificial as attributes the district has. The lights show the tension of a hundred sleepless lives, lying under each eyelid.

Yellow blood shot eyes are the burden of a helpless lonely thing. Yellow but not as like the morning sun escaping from the west to a friend in the east. No it is yellow like a coward, afraid and friendless. The attributes of a man with immense wealth but immense loneliness. Alone. Frightened of being alone, another night, week, and year, even eternity. He continues to stand and wait but suddenly he turns and covers his face, dropping his two-comma respectability becoming a commoner like us.

The lawless corrupt figure, I look, I look no longer for the vision I am confronted with is crystalline, I see something sinister, two evils, small, deformed, yet dwelling inside each one of you. Ready to indulge in the pleasure of the flesh. Wait he has devolved into a frail and scared child. Quaint as a conscience is, it is rather annoying. The cowardice but quaint child wins. Fearful of the environment, he flees with the speed of his youth to find sanctuary in a distant place, just as Jonah fled.

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