#passage.

it’s deep into the night. like always. and yet it isn’t anywhere close for the city to go to sleep, incandescent and stubborn, life flowing from every corner. you’re stuck there, poisoning that which is considered your temple and thinking, thinking more than you need to. like always.

it’s unfair, isn’t it? being treated like a criminal when you were the hero, the corruption and wrongly distributed power of this world sharply slapping you in the face, so harshly it almost gave you whiplash. but what’s even more unfair is having to act like you don’t care, like you don’t hear them, like it doesn’t hurt. am i right? did i hit a nerve? oh, i did. i’m sorry, that was not my intention.

you are now receiving the punishment of a crime another committed, but one day ── one day, i promise it will be worth it, or that the truth will come out. somehow. this is just another experience, a cruel, unjust one, but you can always grow, get stronger, smarter, more pragmatic, more mature, better.

After a long day crammed with classes and studying, the last thing Alexander wanted to do was work his shift at the restaurant. In fact, he would’ve preferred being stabbed with a copious amounts of sharp pencils. Nonetheless, he dragged himself to the location and started getting ready for the dinner rush. It was going to be a interminable night, and he was not looking forward to it in the slightest bit. As crowds of people started to flood their way into the business, Alexander grabbed his notepad. A large sigh fell from his lips as he walked out onto the floor, but quickly contained it, for he then had to take orders. After all, the last thing he needed was a customer complaint; it would only result in an unpleasant conversation with his boss. 

Passage.

Bridget Winder Art