Absence of mind, state, point, being, and center. Body? Present. Mentality? Present. And the rest of the class? Absent. This… creature is truly a modern marvel of an impervious imperfection conceived by a twisted society. Hollow innards, wind flows in circles, creating a chilly draft in the empty bleak cave. Ignorance becomes a closure, gripping hand in hand with its brother, pride and stubbornness, the Jeckell and Hyde of our times. Outside the cave, artistry takes place. True to its surroundings, and done in such brilliance the cover brings a gleam to any artist’s eyes. To the truth this is only a blemish, something it could do without, yet a problem all its own, a problem born by its own negligence, its own ignorance. What annoyance this all is, a fake nothing wanting more than itself to be a real something. All it really wants in it’s life is substance, something to fill the empty space that resides within it’s cavity. A warm wine is needed, to come rushing through a hopefully opening, and fill up the dry ocean. An ocean of support, a bottle of meaning, all amount to the same thing. Full of wine, it would become drunk, and there by disavowing any knowledge of its playground, and throwing away any doubts into the wastebasket of past depressions. At that very moment this empty plastic will have conquered its goals, its empty desires and all the rest will finally be full. All words spoken will have depth and width. Two-dimensional thoughts will expand and take a fuller shape in a 3D world. They would float around in the white wine, like millions of fish; they would flow with grace from corner to corner. Full freedom at the fingertips, thoughts can change in more than just two ways. Restrictions are long disposed of, drifting away, falling down from a waterfall into a black hole. Though, sadly enough this doesn’t happen as much as needed. Forever the clown stuck behind the smile, forever the timid mouse trapped behind a hypocritical boulder. Bars lie up ahead, obscuring every perspective, covering the view as secretly as a magician handkerchief. Here the mind acts as a prisoner to its own offspring. The very thoughts it has created limit the entire body. Heavy on the mind as a ball and shackle, ad as guilty as a wronged conscience, these thoughts are feared. These thoughts are always innocent to the eyes, and vicious to the entire body. Dressed in Christmas wrappings, the unsuspecting child eagerly opens only to find slit wrists from the box full of razors. These very same thoughts seem to act a spell upon the mind, and into the body, causing the hollow person to fixate themselves unto a mirror and ask themselves questions. Questions that have companions lying in the depths of despair. Questions that invoke philosophical debates against what crawls ahead, question after question, each progressively worse. Does one have to be right to come to a self-realization? That is always the one-sided conversation ender, and always the no doze pill the victim unknowingly consumes. As always, as forever, so be in it in the past, so it will be in the future. If possible the sigh of need still whispers quietly in the wind, drifting in and out of joys and pains, strong at the battle line, and weak on the home front. If the sigh is ever found, it needs to be answered and returned, it needs to be shipped up tightly in a care package and hand delivered. Deliverance isn’t what truly matters though, what matters is a reply, a response of some kind. Something to let the candy shell know it’s not alone. Just to let this little hollow candy know that care and love are not words spoken in hushed tones around campfires. A response, something as tiny as a meager “hello”, anything would be appreciated ten fold over. Will this ever happen? Not much is known, not the important things at least. All that is known is what is feed, and even that is suspected of poison. Patience is a virtue blessed not upon it, yet intolerance was given instead. Self-realization will hit soon, and that will take effect rather it is needed or not and rather it is true or false. With a brittle shrug another sigh is sent to join its clique, and the candy readies for bed. In the end every thing ends up the same, or so that is the proverb handed down. All travel along the same worn road, and in the end all is paved. Gripping a teddy bear and a blanket for security, the abused candy tries to ignore the demons that dance outside its window. Before the talons of nightmares grip, one last questions slips out of its mind. When is deliverance?