The Watchman.

“And the sea of people and their own philosophies, norms, moralities and sense of introspection, gave to the birth of death, each carved by his/her own demons.”

It was a Sunday morning when I was on my way to serve my shift in watching over the town: where people embrace the gloom over this near-desolated city we are residing. I adjusted my mask, and with it, hits the aroma that quenches my sanity.

Seeing these lifeless people drives me further to my limit.

I watch them slowly clinging on the precipice of dear life, watching their sunken eyes fall beneath the zenith of their minds.

Arriving my dusty spot, having an overview of the city, I look upon the townsfolk struggling to get their needs in everyday life, where they have to fight their own race for survival. I observed them closely that in the brink of death, one is never ready to accept, but has the choice to fight to see another sun to set.

“I may have thought of things that bring malice and malign to the town, but never have I ever resorted to such nonsense.”

I laugh at my own hypocrisy.

“Hypocrisy that dwells in the blood of every human, saying things that are fitting to himself in the current situation, not realizing that he disregarded every philosophy he ever adhered and followed to.”

But maybe I’m just seeing things in a different light. Wearing this mask that protects me from the plague that poisons this land must be the one that’s inducing me hallucinations of a bitter world.

If maybe I just take off my mask and let be exposed to the truth.

Will it ever change my subjective perspective?

Will these people truly see the light of day that keeps our mind alive every single day?

I threw my mask away, trying to see the other side of the world.

As I expected, everything is so clear now, survival is pretty much essential to our daily lives.

No matter how much we turn the world, the strong will always take from the weak.

It makes a lot of sense now, as that old man cries in the streets where men and women progress in the brink of death. The tears of happiness splattered to the concrete ground, that no matter how much spilled, the world will continue forever.

I looked to the other side, where the playground is at. There are children playing which seems to be, Ring around the rosy, those cheerful smiles that once embodied my childhood made my soul freer at last.

But one thing caught my eye,

It was the reaper, tapping the shoulders of everyone he passes by, collapsing to the very ground where they take a step. As he comes closer and closer to where I am.

I wryly smile at the face of death realizing that I finally see the truth, reminding myself while running low on breath, that I’m just a watchman.

Watching death cradle the souls of men.

-Marcmire