Dear little me, somewhere far in the past,

I envy the days that went by, far too fast.

With time moving quicker and plots growing thicker,

I start sadly wishing that those days could last.

To me, at the old house where fun always grew,

Adventures and stories came easy to you.

Through nature you’d go, and ideas would flow,

You learned that all things could be poetry too.

I love that you wrote tales and journaled your dreams,

Imagining beautiful, colorful scenes.

You never did stop and your pen didn’t drop,

Until you expressed every thought in your being.

Nothing did stifle your creative side,

Living out life having nothing to hide.

No one could hold you, the world did not mold you,

Your mind was a place you could safely abide.

When growing meant busyness, drama and friends,

Your innocent passions came close to an end.

Your mind was twisted, one blink and you missed it,

You now view the world through a foggier lens.

Dear little me, I regret now to say,

Things are much different than back in your day.

There’s pressure and trauma, immeasurable drama,

But trust me, the storm ends, and all is okay.

Oh little me, though so much here has changed,

You and your writing were never estranged.

You keep on writing and I’ll keep on fighting,

To gain motivation for one final page.

I call it The Island. On the surface it’s a beautiful scene. There are tall, shady trees and glistening crystal waves. There is sand, the finest in the world, the kind that falls through your fingers with weightless ease. The sky is never smudged by the grey hue of clouds, but remains a joyous blue.

That is The Island. It doesn’t exist of course. It is a construct. It is a product of compartmentalization. That is a big word which simply means the art of blocking out life’s many troubles. Blocking it out is only the first step for me. What comes next is a wonderful work of creativity.

In glorious delusion I pick up my brush and lay it to the canvas of my mind. My thoughts as the paint, my emotion as the inspiration. I move the brush in the direction of my sorrow and loneliness, my anxiety and hurt. Soon, my hands stop the motion and my heart takes control. Spiraling, weaving, tracing, heaving, the brush moves in rapid expression. The scene unfolds in explicit detail and reality is covered up below the deceptive medium. Ah, yes, reality. The brush falls to the ground…

All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I step back and view the spectacle for the first time. In the process of creation I had closed my eyes. Now I say a splendid scene. A tropical travesty with sparkling tides and spreading trees overhead. Sand whose grains are near microscopic and a sky whose color remains the same. It is The Island.

However I cannot go there now. The ship called Reality has returned to take me home. Some home this is. Yet I will return to revisit this reimagined region, and will again construct those shady shores in remembrance of their healing power. After all, it is not so much dwelling on The Island which gives me rest. No, it is in the act of creation that the peace comes. But the serenity is only so for a time, and never lasts long. So I will wait. I will travel the oceans, heading nowhere, seeing nothing. But along the way I will find my brush again, and touch is once more to the canvas of my mind.

Maybe it was the way the clouds floated still, not moving even an inch. Outlined by the dim, orange glow they hung motionless under her dazzled gaze. Yet, when her staring was interrupted, diverted to the external world, they seemed to shift at an immaculate pace. When she returned her dark eyes to those cottony spectacles, she found they had shuffled into a new, dimmer, yet equally stunning array. A more somber and ordinary scene ensued, finding the clouds less illuminated by the sun’s waning color. The reverse-dawn had taken its toll, disguised at first as a beautiful sunset, but now only an oncoming veil of dark abyss. With the darkness came reality, and with the sun went hope. The sentimental meaning she had been searching for revealed itself. With the last streaks of color leaving her view came that sad analogy: depressing truths shaped like motionless, dull, grey clouds.

It was quarter-past-twelve, and the boy gazed blankly over the leather-covered steering wheel. To his right, another figure leaned motionless against the half-fogged window. Through cottony wisps, the glowing orb inched, illuminating the beaten pavement ahead. Brighter, blue-ish nights like these held a strange nostalgic power over some, which was enough to draw a soft sigh from the driver’s nose. This atmosphere prompted the twenty-one-year-old, named Ani, to a feeling of loneliness. Of course, he wasn’t alone at present, yet the feeling persisted and filled his chest with a quivering mixture of dread and sadness. There was a shuffling noise beside him, and he turned to find his only sibling awakening from a light, relaxed slumber.

“Where are we going?” said the slumped passenger, rubbing one eye and squinting the other. There was obvious confusion in that youthful voice, forcing a false laugh from his brother.

“Hah! You must’ve been out cold. I just took the scenic route home. We’re not too far away now.” These sarcastic words normally put the inquiring counterpart at ease, but this time, he persisted.

“No, like what road is this? I -I don’t think I’ve ever been…” He paused. With a light groan, Jack twisted up in his seat, scanning the surrounding scenery. His older brother finally turned to survey the confused kid, waiting for him to complete his thought. He never did. That was when Adi’s smile became legitimate, finding genuine amusement in the apparent discombobulation. This went on, and Jack began muttering under his breath.

“What’s your deal?” said the older boy, breaking the silence with a poorly suppressed chuckle. When he received no answer, he shook his head rhythmically. The delusional fellow must have fallen back asleep now. Adi was under this impression for at least a minute until suddenly…

“Bella’s okay, right?”

Jack’s concerned voice froze the driver in an instant. Both hands gripped the wheel like iron, heart skipping a beat. His breathing became choppy as he processed the recent words.

“What do you mean,” he stuttered. The attempted facade of composure was not effective enough for the clearly worried younger brother. Jack glared at Adi with a look of upset inquiry, racking his brain as if failing to remember something. “Bella?”

Entering a heavily misted stretch in the road, Adi lifted his boot a little off the accelerator. He hadn’t heard the name of his brother’s girlfriend in nearly eight months.

“Why wasn’t she there tonight? Wh- what is going on? Adi I can’t…” said Jack.

“Bella who? Our cousin Bella? I’m not sure —” his voice trembled.

“No, not her… it’s something — shoot, why can’t I — remember?” Adi felt the panic welling up. The doctors hadn’t prepared him enough for this, and he had no words to calm the deluge of emotion striking his brother. He feared nothing would soothe him now. Stupid treatment, stupid doctors, stupid decision, he thought. Jack continued to mumble under his breath, and it would surely get worse if he —

It was then that Adi remembered back to the first informational meeting he and his parents attended. The doctor, called Greene, had given them a brief lecture on the dangers of the treatment. He explained it was not tried-and-true, the method, and would not work without the weekly pills for upkeep. Adi also remembered the hypothesis of what would happen if Jack suddenly broke out of the “Memory Deficiency Core”, as they called it. The grief which this treatment removed was not gone forever, only delayed. The feelings of sadness, trauma, guilt and anything else would continue as though the traumatic event had just taken place. Adi knew they shouldn’t have accepted this seemingly inhumane antidote, seeing it as an unworthy risk. The hope that Jack would forget his accident forever was shattered as the memories came flooding back. If nothing changed, he would remember it all.

The older brother’s foot resumed its pressure of the gas pedal as Jack’s breathing heaved quicker and quicker.

“Something happened, Adi, what…” began the poor boy, flinging hands over head. He ran ten scrawny fingers through a dome of curly hair, brow twisted in distress. The feelings were returning, yet he still hadn’t remembered why. “What did I do? What did I do?"

“Nothing Jacky. You’re still dreaming. Go back to- ”

“No, no no. It was horrible…” he released an anxious groan. “It’s my fault.”

Adi took this opportunity, shifting slightly to fit his brother into view. He spoke now in a low monotone.

“What’s your fault? I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” There was silence as Adi steered the vehicle around the last curve, soon to reach their destination. Surely his parents knew how to combat this tricky conundrum. The lack of noise made him cringe, as he could hardly imagine what his brother was recollecting now.

Skeeee.

The car came to a halt with brakes screaming. There was still no sound from the subject in the passenger seat. Just when he thought this nightmare had blown over, he heard a subtle sob from his loved-one. And again, a gasp under his breath.

“O-oh Lord.” The teenager’s voice was a whisper, low and wavering. Not a hair on his body moved. His brother knew what had just occurred and unknowingly held his breath. Staring out the windshield, with a single bead of sweat escaping down his brow, Jack opened his mouth to speak.

“I killed her” was barely audible.

It was over.

He had remembered.

With a slightly malevolent grin, the crooked man took his perch atop the roof‘s only seat. The small, wooden bench from carvèd oak made a creaking at his doing so. And now he waited.

With nothing better to do, and no sign of untimely disturbance, he crouched. It wouldn’t be long now.

The promise, so fantastical, so magical in nature, rang out inside his brain. No one else knew, no one else cared, so he waited.

He would get his wish, his less-than-humble desire. He would get all he ever wanted. For that, he waited.

The sun had now begun to set on the tail-end of this long foretold day, and a spike of doubt pecked its way into the figure‘s soul. When that pang grew, morphing into an awful talon of dread, he began to feel hope slipping away. As he contemplated climbing down from his rooftop abode, he felt the brush of breezy wings on his back.

“Ah,” he remembered, “an owl never arrives on time.”

“It’s 11:55 Ray, we saved a sparkler or two for you.”

Upon hearing this familiar voice, the man at the desk drew a breath. He lifted his head out of his hands at a snail’s pace, resting a tired gaze on the woman in the doorway. Through the tangled locks, he observed his lone supportive companion, the only one who remained. Now the poor being observed the surrounding wasteland through dark, stressed eyes. The paper stacks, books, binders and folders, all full of strange pictures, hieroglyphics, scribbles, proofs, and theories. The empty cups, plastic plates and utensils, all like rotting bones under the humming fluorescent lights. It seemed the anxiety which filled the past three years had now reached a torturous peak.

“I- I can’t,”. His voice was barely audible. “I have to wait.” The standing figure’s face distorted with disappointment as her last-stitch effort fell short. There was loud silence now, as the whirring of the lights continued to fill the room. The pretty woman adjusted her footing at the entrance of the room and bit her lip to keep the tears inside. “I just thought-”. Unable to continue, she slowly rotated and began her exit.

“I’m really sure this time.” said the man with more effort and volume. It caused his friend to halt abruptly and her shoulders slumped. The shaky sigh from his best friend nearly broke the man’s heart right there. As she cracked open the door leading downstairs, there was a resonating flow of laughter. Many voices were audible, merging into a merry melody of enjoyment on the floor below.

“Please Jill, I know he’s coming, please.” His voice trailed off into a whisper, unable to suppress the whelming emotion any longer. He observed as his friend struggled also to hold back the tears. Through blurry eyes he saw her turn, brow bent in furrowed frustration.

“Why can’t you see it? No one knows when he’s coming back. No one. It’s not the end of the world!” She said, unable to continue with the impending sobs. With a quivering lip, the woman quickly began her descent back to reality below. Now the man’s head fell once again into his palms. His hunched back shook with every sob until there were no more drops left to fall.

According to the mechanical time-teller on the nearby wall, it was two minutes before midnight: a time when the eternity of waiting would conclude. The time when all the research, all the late nights, and all the endless strife would be proven either worth it, or a waste. For a trio of years, he had longed for and dreaded this day- the dawn of the 21st century. He questioned the confidence that had built up deep in his heart over these forlorn years. He had given up all hope of a normal life in order to pursue his wild fantasy of a prediction. If the Savior would not return in two dreadful minutes, at the stroke of midnight, he would have no more reason to live. So he sat, awaiting his dubious introduction into the kingdom of Heaven.

Now, however, he glanced hopelessly through the cracked door, left ajar by his closest comrade. He found himself in a limbo of decision, with two paths in front of him. The musty, forsaken scene around him was a desolate landscape of pain and hope, simultaneously. Down the flight of stairs was a place of elated celebration. Celebration of something known, something set, and something guaranteed. Down that single flight of stairs was a party of truth, and a gathering of like-minded friends. He longed for that. He wished for something guaranteed. But he had come too far to give up on his prophecy now… he had to see it through.

It was a little over a minute until midnight, and the bulbs overhead still buzzed a melancholy tone. This was when the memories began flooding in, like a dam had broken inside his mind. A flow of past arguments came rushing, overwhelming the sad, huddled figure. He remembered when he first stopped attending church, and the calls he received in search of explanation. He heard the voice of his father and the words he spoke near the beginning of this madness: Not one man knows when he will return. Give it up before it’s too late. Well, now it was too late, no matter what the greatest influences in his life would say. How many people had called him crazy? How many had abandoned him along the way? All the events leading to his downward spiral of insanity came to him at once.

With straining, he lifted his head to that clock, with its hands of destiny ticking. Thirty seconds remaining. Soon enough, the beings below would begin their chanting, every word bringing him closer to his impending doom.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-five.

Overwhelming doubt attacked at the helpless form, its pangs of dread like daggers in his flesh. He pleaded with the God he thought he knew, asking for Him to once again send down His son. Verses of hypocritical prayer left his lips as beads of sweat dampened his brow.

Twenty-one.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

There were no more words to be uttered, and his focus shifted to the window at his side. The view created from this opening was of hellish darkness and gloom. There was nothing to be seen at the moment, but he sat in expectation of a glorious illumination.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

The chanting grew louder, synchronized in cheerful anticipation.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

This was it. He had not only reached the precipice of no return; he had jumped and now found himself free-falling with no influence on the outcome of this action. The only hope was that there was some sweet relief to cushion his fall.

Five.

Four.

Three.

A set of bloodshot eyes closed tightly.

Two.

One.

Silence.

There was a sudden flash of light, like the sun had collided with Earth. A ringing shot through the man’s ears as he shrieked in terror. Fading in and out of consciousness, he gripped and crawled along the ground. With superhuman effort, he blinked furiously and stared upwards from his place near the floor. There was a glimpse of a man, wrapped in that light, and then all went to black.

He woke, but kept his eyes glued shut. Disorientation plagued his brain, and he clawed at the ground once more. Then, in a moment of stabbing realization, he jerked up into a sitting position. Blink opened his eyes, quickly adjusting back to the gloom. He had been right. He had succeeded. His years and years of work had proven… worth it?

There was no buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs, and no chanting of the friends below. There were no cheerful laughs and no signs of life at all. Nothing suggested the man wasn’t entirely and utterly alone. There was a pounding, a thumping in his breast. His eyes grew wide and desperate. Another flash ensued, but this one seemed dim and orange compared to the heavenly beam that preceded it. Whipping his head towards the window, he exhaled a sharp gasp. There was the moon, glowing a bright red, and taunting him through the cotton clouds.

It’s not the end of the world!

The woman’s words sprung to his mind instantly, and he cried out in horror. In surrender, the man fell to his knees.

She was wrong. It was the end of the world…

… But he had been left behind.

“It’s 11:55 Ray, we saved a sparkler or two for you.”

Upon hearing this familiar voice, the man at the desk drew a breath. He lifted his head out of his hands at a snail’s pace, resting a tired gaze on the woman in the doorway. Through the tangled locks, he observed his lone supportive companion, the only one who remained. Now the poor being observed the surrounding wasteland through dark, stressed eyes. The paper stacks, books, binders and folders, all full of strange pictures, hieroglyphics, scribbles, proofs, and theories. The empty cups, plastic plates and utensils, all like rotting bones under the humming fluorescent lights. It seemed the anxiety which filled the past three years had now reached a torturous peak.

“I- I can’t,”. His voice was barely audible. “I have to wait.” The standing figure’s face distorted with disappointment as her last-stitch effort fell short. There was loud silence now, as the whirring of the lights continued to fill the room. The pretty woman adjusted her footing at the entrance of the room and bit her lip to keep the tears inside. “I just thought-”. Unable to continue, she slowly rotated and began her exit.

“I’m really sure this time.” said the man with more effort and volume. It caused his friend to halt abruptly and her shoulders slumped. The shaky sigh from his best friend nearly broke the man’s heart right there. As she cracked open the door leading downstairs, there was a resonating flow of laughter. Many voices were audible, merging into a merry melody of enjoyment on the floor below.

“Please Jill, I know he’s coming, please.” His voice trailed off into a whisper, unable to suppress the whelming emotion any longer. He observed as his friend struggled also to hold back the tears. Through blurry eyes he saw her turn, brow bent in furrowed frustration.

“Why can’t you see it? No one knows when he’s coming back. No one. It’s not the end of the world!” She said, unable to continue with the impending sobs. With a quivering lip, the woman quickly began her descent back to reality below. Now the man’s head fell once again into his palms. His hunched back shook with every sob until there were no more drops left to fall.

According to the mechanical time-teller on the nearby wall, it was two minutes before midnight: a time when the eternity of waiting would conclude. The time when all the research, all the late nights, and all the endless strife would be proven either worth it, or a waste. For a trio of years, he had longed for and dreaded this day- the dawn of the 21st century. He questioned the confidence that had built up deep in his heart over these forlorn years. He had given up all hope of a normal life in order to pursue his wild fantasy of a prediction. If the Savior would not return in two dreadful minutes, at the stroke of midnight, he would have no more reason to live. So he sat, awaiting his dubious introduction into the kingdom of Heaven.

Now, however, he glanced hopelessly through the cracked door, left ajar by his closest comrade. He found himself in a limbo of decision, with two paths in front of him. The musty, forsaken scene around him was a desolate landscape of pain and hope, simultaneously. Down the flight of stairs was a place of elated celebration. Celebration of something known, something set, and something guaranteed. Down that single flight of stairs was a party of truth, and a gathering of like-minded friends. He longed for that. He wished for something guaranteed. But he had come too far to give up on his prophecy now… he had to see it through.

It was a little over a minute until midnight, and the bulbs overhead still buzzed a melancholy tone. This was when the memories began flooding in, like a dam had broken inside his mind. A flow of past arguments came rushing, overwhelming the sad, huddled figure. He remembered when he first stopped attending church, and the calls he received in search of explanation. He heard the voice of his father and the words he spoke near the beginning of this madness: Not one man knows when he will return. Give it up before it’s too late. Well, now it was too late, no matter what the greatest influences in his life would say. How many people had called him crazy? How many had abandoned him along the way? All the events leading to his downward spiral of insanity came to him at once.

With straining, he lifted his head to that clock, with its hands of destiny ticking. Thirty seconds remaining. Soon enough, the beings below would begin their chanting, every word bringing him closer to his impending doom.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-five.

Overwhelming doubt attacked at the helpless form, its pangs of dread like daggers in his flesh. He pleaded with the God he thought he knew, asking for Him to once again send down His son. Verses of hypocritical prayer left his lips as beads of sweat dampened his brow.

Twenty-one.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

There were no more words to be uttered, and his focus shifted to the window at his side. The view created from this opening was of hellish darkness and gloom. There was nothing to be seen at the moment, but he sat in expectation of a glorious illumination.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

The chanting grew louder, synchronized in cheerful anticipation.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

This was it. He had not only reached the precipice of no return; he had jumped and now found himself free-falling with no influence on the outcome of this action. The only hope was that there was some sweet relief to cushion his fall.

Five.

Four.

Three.

A set of bloodshot eyes closed tightly.

Two.

One.

Silence.

There was a sudden flash of light, like the sun had collided with Earth. A ringing shot through the man’s ears as he shrieked in terror. Fading in and out of consciousness, he gripped and crawled along the ground. With superhuman effort, he blinked furiously and stared upwards from his place near the floor. There was a glimpse of a man, wrapped in that light, and then all went to black.

He woke, but kept his eyes glued shut. Disorientation plagued his brain, and he clawed at the ground once more. Then, in a moment of stabbing realization, he jerked up into a sitting position. Blink opened his eyes, quickly adjusting back to the gloom. He had been right. He had succeeded. His years and years of work had proven… worth it?

There was no buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs, and no chanting of the friends below. There were no cheerful laughs and no signs of life at all. Nothing suggested the man wasn’t entirely and utterly alone. There was a pounding, a thumping in his breast. His eyes grew wide and desperate. Another flash ensued, but this one seemed dim and orange compared to the heavenly beam that preceded it. Whipping his head towards the window, he exhaled a sharp gasp. There was the moon, glowing a bright red, and taunting him through the cotton clouds.

It’s not the end of the world!

The woman’s words sprung to his mind instantly, and he cried out in horror. In surrender, the man fell to his knees.

She was wrong. It was the end of the world…

… But he had been left behind.

(Beginning of) The End.

With the bronze illumination of the setting sun flowing in through the rear window, I turned slowly onto Clark Street. The wheels of my car had traversed this same turn thousands of times, with little to no variation. Creeping along past the rows of cute, Virginian homes, I noticed a few familiar figures. There solemnly stood Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, Mr. Franklin, and Ms. Harriet, all conversing quietly in front of my quaint abode. Mr. Maddox, known to neighbors as Pete, noticed me soon after. Motioning to the others, he scuttled out of the drive and into the street. The rest followed. The sound of the squeaky brakes rose, and so did my curiosity. I was half surprised to see Pete walk up the open door of my car with a soft look on his face, for once.

"Evenin' Sean. Did'ya hear 'bout that odd fellow Darren down the street?" There was a slight chuckle before he continued in a more serious tone. "They say he's been charged with a double-homicide of some girls from Culpeper. Poor thangs." He gestured towards the undercover police vehicles parked a few houses down.

It was clear that the scruffy man had expected more of a reaction out of me, or some sort of surprised gasp. The truth was, I wasn't the least surprised.

"Awe, well, I's sure you has. It's spread all over the damn town in 'bout an hour" he said in a matter-of-fact voice. It was then that petite Ms. Harriet noticed Pete and I, and made her way over in a nervous waddle.

"He was such a quiet man." she said upon arriving, "Didn't expect nothing like this at all! He only seemed a little different, don't you think, Sean?" There was a touch of pity in her words, which was clearly to Pete's chagrin. He rolled his eyes.

It was only now that I realized I hadn't said a word since arriving on this worried scene. I was deep in thought, juggling ideas and memories inside my head. So deep was my thinking, in fact, that I ignored the commotion which ensued at the sight of the convicted neighbor Darren being dragged out in handcuffs. I only looked up in time to see the crazed face of that stranger-turned-murderer, and the uninterested look painted on it. I shuddered.

I knew from the day he moved in that something was different about this character. He had ignored my knocking on his door, when I planned to give him a warm welcome to Clark Street. From that moment on, I kept a particularly keen eye on him. That was when things got weird. When I finally heard his voice for the first time, I wished immediately I had never. The slight stutter, the strangely-placed emphasis, and the uncanny charisma which inevitably drew you in. Everything he said was in a slow, smooth, and deliberate fashion, always with some hidden purpose or agenda. Every word twisted, molded into some creation of evil intent. It was clear to me how some clueless girls could fall into the traps of his dialect.

His slicked-back hair, with long, greasy locks, made him appear neat, yet maniacal. There was some eerie aura around his dark, beady eyes and cleanly shaven face. The way he conversed with the unsuspecting mail-lady gave me uncomfortable feelings and judgement for him rose up within me. I suspected some villain-like intention behind everything he did, yet my good-nature did not let the words of allegation ever leave my mouth. I accused him secretly, reported him silently, but never had the guts to publicly raise a red flag.

So, as my eyes followed the police vehicles containing that murderous lunatic, rolling down the avenue, I felt some semblance of guilt. My brain made me believe there was some way to blame myself for the death of two innocent girls. Yet I knew there wasn't.

As the last sliver of the golden star slipped behind the horizon, I drew in a deep breath. Along with the rest of Clark Street, I would eventually forget the murder, and the story of the two victims would be lost to time. But I wasn't convinced that the memory of such a deranged, demented human could ever leave my mind.

Now from this cold cell I write.

I write so that I do not forget my dearest neighbor, Sean. The only one who knew, the only one who could have made a difference. Of all the stupid people I found on that doleful street, he was the least stupid.

But alas, he was just not brave enough. I imagine he is sitting now, feeling that beautiful mountain of guilt. If only he would have told someone, and warned them about me. Rising suspicion would have brought about caution. Maybe, just maybe, the lives of those two lovely ladies would have been saved.

But probably not...

Darren S. Leonard, #2334.

Central Virginia Correctional Unit, Cell 38B, 2/23/21.

This is an outrage.

I should be cruising the open ocean with my container friends, on a grand transport vessel. I am sure this is not my true purpose, it simply can't be.

At least it is for a good cause. I appear to be on the border of two nations, "countries" as the Little People call them. The side I am able to see is called Arizona, and they sure do love their guns over here. I always see groups of these people walking right past me, crossing The Border which I am evidently a part of. I can't understand some of the words they use. Something about immagrans, and protecting Arizona from "those varmints". I'm not sure what any of it means but it doesn't sound friendly.

I have come to the conclusion that the country of Arizona is at war. I wish so badly I could see what happens after these dangerous people cross The Border. I hear such an awful commotion whenever they see those immagrans. Their guns make such loud bangs and zips, as if little explosions are going off left and right. They don't hurt when they hit me, and I know it isn't on purpose.

It has been nearly 2 years now and this war is at its peak. I have been given reinforcements, probably more containers, but I still cannot see them. I have sunk into the sand now, about a foot by my judgement. I seem to be staying here for a long, long time.

I still dream about the day when I can finally fulfill my purpose, and cruise the seven seas as the greatest shipping container out there.

But at least I'm being used for a good cause.

I think...

Has your heart one time been broken,

Has is chipped in two?

Has it hurt from words once spoken,

Words once yelled at you?

Have you ever felt as though

Your world came crashing down?

Or like there was no place to go,

No way to get around?

A cloud of sadness followed you,

And soon it turned to spite.

Which soon turned to depression too,

Just as you thought it might.

You should have seen it all the while,

As to avoid the pain.

She found it easy to beguile,

Your young and naive brain.

Looking back on all the mess,

I hope it shows quite clear,

That breaking up was for the best,

Despite of all the tears.