something was wrong with him. every time he looked in the
mirror he became more certain of it. every passing day
widened a chasm, a certain kind of emptiness within him. it
was something he could see in his eyes, a hollowness where
some fundamental building block of humanity was supposed to
be but was not. he could still talk and smile, and seemed to
function well around people, but he knew it must be because
they hadn’t sensed yet that he had a labyrinth of knowledge in
which he had somehow become lost. in his dreams he was
always wandering in the forlorn husks of things that had once
been magnificent but now only echoed his seething discontent
at his own imperfection. the way that he had entered was
sealed and these places in which he had once sought refuge
from the capriciousness of the world were now his prison. each
corridor he tried to exit by only led to more empty rooms,
more places where people had once been but no longer were.
even when he was externally surrounded by others the world
had become a wasteland; the very dimensions had shifted so
that all welcoming things before him were shadows and smoke.
the vaulted ceilings of his most precious hopes were slowly
crumbling and the machinery that drove his will to continue
had ground to a halt.
though it was hard to define the outline of it, there was a
certain kind of emptiness about his features. he wondered why
no one else noticed.
picture taken at portside power plant. all rights reserved.
more of my work is available at abandonedamerica.org