You stand back up in this dismal world, face down at the floor. You will not rebel today; you must fit in for a few more months. You must not be discovered. Focus: mumchance. The Others do not know how plastic, how robotic they became. Perfect your flaws and mask your feelings. Imperviously, you have become a doll, a moving statue with no expression. No one can know, you will not feed monsters your fears, yet you already have.

Step after hesitant step with your eyes on the dirt, you make it back to your destination. Griping the golden handle, you open the dirt caked door to reveal your abode. Brown blanket spread on a wooden bed frame, a pillow stained with mud, even though you tried not to cry, a rickety wooden chair and a desk to go with it. You quickly close the door. You only have a few minutes before the lights turned out and you didn't want to do it gawking at your few possessions. Quickly, quietly, you shut the door, locking it with shaky hands. You may finally be alive again. But what was it like? To live before this? To be happy?

What is happiness?

You have never known that word, only that it is the opposite of disgrace, pain, and violence. Maybe it is dark and silent, like the place they cannot find you, where they cannot harm you. It is not the fire in their eyes that call for destruction. That is all you know.

Breathing in deeply, you reveal the book, a treasure to your eyes. You are aware that it is a symbol of rebellion, a relic that proves that you are guilty of all crimes. The velvet, scarlet, was soft and worn, the title spun out of gold. "Future" you mouth silently, the word too strong for your own ears. The chain, also gold, shone brightly, as if just yesterday it was formed. Yet there was no key-- there was no way to see what "Future" had to offer you.

You try everything to open the lock. You pick at it. You curse it. You plead with it. In your frustration, you throw the book under your pillow and sink into your blanket for another night of dreamless sleep. As your mind drifts and the lights grow dark, your thoughts remain fixed on the book. Slowly, you slip into a tossing sleep.

People live in dark realities, a seamless nightmare, a grim fairy-tale of hope and heartache. People always try, perhaps their hardest, yet, people always fail: Is it better to question potential, or falter in a better place?

Some gave in-- The Others did. Their first mistake: setting out to fail. Many let it gather, a raging storm waiting to break loose from their eyes, clouding their perception while their friends turn into fiends consulting the devil. They don't know how you live. You let the storm blow over. You didn't give in. Limitless you are in your mind, yet others try to control that. You have always enjoyed your sunny patch in the dark storm of reality, but feel like a beggar at the mercy of this society.

You raise a hand in the blackness, yet see nothing. You brush aside another thought as tears keep forming in the corners of your eyes. Lost. Alone. Confused. You think of other, more harsh words to describe your poor existence and the pain caused by anguish: ******. You hear a sudden intake of breath in the pressing darkness-- your breath. These words, whether they be true or false, give a concept to what you are: without a place to stand in a world like this.

You long to find the one who broke the wall, who fixed the heart, who changed the course of your destiny, the one who unlocked a door to let the words come out. You could never have done it for yourself. The one friend you had was whisked away to an unknown place. Whether the words given you were a blessing or a curse, you knew that nothing would be the same for you. So did The Others. They watched with their hunted eyes, and The Guards with their hungry ones. Yet they could never discover you in the abyss of your own mind.

Everything is falling apart, falling down into a consuming darkness. Nothing really matters in an imaginary world of darkness, filled with glittering masterpieces masked in black drapery as to never show the world. Again you down a draft of another lie-- a poisonous elixir to the mind. Again, the imaginings of the heart grow faster, and you allow yourself to dream-- just once-- of the life your friend had spoken of. Life without The Others? You have been long desolate and deprived of encouragement and love that these thoughts of a better world bring renewed pain to your heart and diamonds cutting at the corner of your eyes.

Gradually, the dingy light returns you back to that former state of unrest and distrust. You long for the comfortable darkness as the wrenching physical pain returns. They left you lying in the hall, with people and rats scurrying about with blank expressions. Guilty again, your thoughts run wild. No one pays attention.

You try on a blank expression to fit in like The Others, yet feeling like you are wearing stage makeup and logie, you are an uninvited impostor to the stage. You put your worst foot forward, willingly concealing the extent of your genius, stepping forward into the fuscous hallway, relying on their uniformity in order to blend in.

Their stares are drawn to you instantly, mouths agape and their lucid eyes showing no expression and no thought. It was cold as you shifted your eyes to look at the floor. Step after step you can hear the blood pounding in your ears, every pulse becoming louder as you focused on your feet. You knew the drill-- if they ever stopped to talk, the dreaded question would be asked-- "How are you?" You would suffice to a smile, a lie, though you had never felt so empty. How could that be answered in honesty if all you can say is "Alone," "Ignored," "Devalued?" The insomnia, the stress, the anxiety, the truth: that is what would break your will and increase your assimilation into this plain society. That is, if they ever cared to ask. Ignored in passing conversation, unheard, unseen, struggling under a load of knowledge of a world that was not always this way. Yet, you smile when they ask. They may think you as the happiest person, if they could think, but you have shut yourself in the darkness where they will never find you.

Trudging down the hall with your eyes glued to the floor, and a painted expression on your face, you head back down to the room of your residence. Security cameras scan over the people and guards strode up and down the hallways like they always do-- To keep the peace. You have your doubts about that, constantly wondering if The Others could think if they had the chance. The hall was lit by ***** globes running down the center off the corridor, casting everything in a dismal brown glow. Everything was colored putrid brown: the dirt floor, the ***** lines on your unwashed hands, the doors, the uniformed shirts, the course hair, and the eyes staring back at you. You quickly drop your wandering gaze back to where the rats live, but one of The Guards was already walking toward you, a menacing expression on his grime covered face.

Out of all The Others, The Guards were the worst ones. They remained unthinking and expressionless, but they can tell when another individual was thinking. Any thought is prohibited, be it good or evil. It may break the peace of this thoughtless society. They hunger for violence and deliver unjust punishment without question, especially one of thought. A whipping or a kick is one of the less severe consequences of thought. However, you have witness death before, and you hide your trembling white hands in the pockets of your jeans.

"Yellow," the guard mocked, smiling, licking his lips in anticipation, "How are you?" Then the whipping comes, blow after blow on all sides, both pain and blood searing your nerves. You didn't realize the extra guards coming from behind. Their expressions change, relishing the feeling of joy each time their bats hit another mark on your soft flesh. Thankfully, your conscious quickly retreats to a hiding spot they where can never find you.

It was dark and dreary. The poorly lit room stank of mold and mildew as ill kept books lay rotting in a pile. Weary of rats and spiders, you set to work, salvaging what you could, which tended to be nothing. Book after rotting book thrown into a pile, the smell of decay growing in the air. Finally, at the bottom of the stack, you discover a book bound in soft red velvet locked with a golden chain. Intrigued, you hid the book beneath your shirt, so The Others would not know of your precious treasure. The book's name: Future.

Your secret you may longer keep, it was future for the taking, but light may nar reach your place with confidence dividing. Returning to what you once knew is a ruin you can't face, staring at you through unclear eyes, the future you are bound to lose, but it is not a good thing to think that way now.

The Others-- they are lifeless faces, blank expressions interacting like clockwork and just the same every day. They needlessly stare at your labeled stupidity, a genius in society, lacerating you from the rest of society. There is an encompassing "alone" around your being, which you appreciate like perfume on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yes, these are the days where you may escape for a few hours from pointed fingers and gawky gazes.

Another Tuesday on its way out, you brush the dust from your jeans and determine that they cannot see the book that you tucked away so carefully. How ancient is this book, to be buried beneath centuries of dilapidated covers? Yet, strangely, it did not suffer the same fate. Perhaps the future is like you are: something that will not change to conform to its surroundings.

Have you ever wondered how one spark can illuminate the universe?
Once thought as black and pressing,
now realized to be endless.
One spark.
One spark of knowledge
casting out the darkness
and giving needed knowledge to the world.

You have wondered.
Your soul feels the crushing question of existence
weighing down on your consciousness, often wondering,
"Is this a figment of another's dream?
Are others meant to push to a
pre-decided future?"
You may never find the truth you lack, you may never be satisfied.

One spark--
All knowledge needs to come from somewhere.