This little boy is so sick and tired. So annoyed by past losses, so annoyed by personal gains only to gamble it all away in a misguided moral or trust issue. Sickened in the soul, malfunctioning in the mind, fatigue dances around timidly in the little boy's body. God, what would it cost to be saved by the onslaught of confusion that racks this little boy's mind? How much personal possessions must be sold in order to achieve a single alighting moment where all becomes clear? All that is needed is just one fraction of a fraction, a grain of sand in the hourglass of fleeting time. That is all, no matter the quickness of the situation, for any amount of relief would be equal the driving torment that accompanies uncertainty. Is life honestly meant to be this hard, or do some people just have it better off than others and find it impossible not to brag? Why must this little boy spend his time pounding his tiny fists into his head, while he rocks quickly in the corner of his sanctuary? Why must he ignore the steady beat of knocks on his door, only to quietly wish to open and accept what lies beyond? This is not fair, and it was never meant to be fair. The little boy cries to nothing, seeking relief and rescue, where all he finds is emptiness and grief. The little boy grows more and more agitated from the lack of response and paces a trench into the ground. Faster and deeper the boy goes, until he finds only darkness from the sky he once trusted. Scared from the sudden drawback of the assuring warmth that had always accompanied him, he starts to cry. He cries from his wounds, and he bleeds from his eyes. Slowly the acidic mixture of blood and tears collects around him, and the level of liquid rises. He feels the liquid rise to his stained face, and he cries out in surprise. An opening is found, and the liquid death eagerly takes flight down the boy's mouth. As the lava burns the innards, the boy finds himself slipping, slipping away from his life and his potential. Splotches of death paint their way into the boy's vision and he cries more, adding to the very thing that is slowly killing him. Soon all color in his view retreats into nothingness, and the boy falls. He falls deeper and further than he has ever fallen in his life. Tumbling and twisting in a free fall of carnival proportions, the boy has landed in a living dream. At every turn he expects a devilish clown to pop out of the ground and haunt him forever. The boy, shaking from excessive amounts of fear and anguish, looks up into the bleeding sky. Deeper he peers into the sky until he catches a phantom of his former self, a self that had been polluted by so many illusions and fake beings. He wonders if he has finally escaped, and he wonders if he is finally free from the iron shackles that bind his mind to his soul, to his physical state. A continuation of worrying reveals only that he is not free, yet only eternally bound into a fetal position with countless chains bringing him down. Long past wits end, and existing on life only, what is this little boy to do? Being so little its obvious he has an infinite life ahead of him. But, how can he spend that life when he is always sitting still, wondering about his life and how is life is going to begin? So much is offered before him, so much is dangling in front of him. Yet he chooses to ignore it. Casting it aside with the same cold shoulder he has learned from his almighty role model. Honestly what is wanted from him? What is needed from such a small and innocent child? Why is it that he spends his entire life helping others while he ignores the very gift that had been given to him? No problem is greater than the gaping loss that devours up every living organ in his body. Such a strong bond created by his love for his surroundings that it becomes liquor to his body. This little boy never complains, for he feels he has no reason to complain. To complain means to admit defeat, and to admit defeat means to lose forever. So, he complains to himself, and only to himself. He locks his soul away from every one else, away from the caring, away from the loving. This little boy erupts in a rage found only in dead ancestors, and cries a flood to scare Noah. God, all this little boy wishes for is some sanity. All this tiny, insignificant boy wishes for is for a perfect heart to stumble by and mend. That perfect heart that will be everything he has ever wished for. That perfect heart and soul that will help him through everything in life. That perfect heart that will be his waking sun, and his rising moon. The perfect heart that will rescue him from the dark depths of an endless dungeon. That heart, that soul will be everything this little boy wishes for, and lives for. Once found, it will never be let go, it will as cherished more than his own life. As lovely and memorable as the first flower of spring, as loved and as an endless summer night. Until then, this little boy is stumbling around, falling, drunk from despair; he crawls around in a giant circle. The ever-familiar circle, worn from sixteen years of walking, worn from heavy shoes. Worn deeper than it should be. For this little boy has had little to drop his weight on. After ripped away from the womb of a self-created fantasy, this crying baby was born in the alley of a cruel world. Brought up to treat the word trust as a delicate vase. Brought up to be friendly to everyone, to become everyone's friend, yet to hand out his trust as a piece of his humanity. Yet select few have gained his trust, and his load is unevenly distributed between himself and his friends. So he continues to pace, and wait until he finds that perfect heart. He continues to wait and fight his own dark thoughts. He walks around in this circle and cries until his eyes go dry. He walks around forever, until he is finally completely happy.