Hermit

By: Irish Guy

In the deep parts of the forest resides a hermit. He sits down on a stool in his shack with nothing but a lamp on a desk shedding light onto his book. Books of how things are suppose to be, how life is suppose to be happy and nothing should ever go wrong. The hermit had a life; he remembers how things were for him. He was supposed to be a genius, the man who was to save his town’s economy, the state’s economy. He was born into this world, the first genetic baby; he was supposed to be flawless. They burdened him; they put their faith in him, they needed him. He was only the first, he had flaws. The creators couldn’t know he would end up this way. The people drove him to the edges of sanity; he couldn’t stand being the one person everyone relied on. He ran for days, just running in random directions. The creators made more of his kind. They had no need to look for this one, so they let him go. Now he just reads and eats what he has. He has lived several years out in his shack, but now he cannot hold his on. He lies down, and just sleeps, for now he knows nothing but what has been and not what will be.