AUTHOR'S NOTE: Most of the elements in this story are completely metaphorical, so do not take everything literally, thanks.

They're dead. All of them, dead. Reflecting, I see the many roads hell-bent, sentenced for eternity.

But I can't do anything. I've done my best, but we never get anything for all our work, do we?

Let this story be a warning.

What is the essence of our hearts that makes us ignorant?

What makes us so intolerant of others that do not fit the status quo?

And in the end, what drives us to continue not to change?

Back in the days of my past, I once believed that the human race was perfect in every way, and that no one had any faults. If anyone had made a mistake, it was not theirs: it was simply an accident, and nothing more, and I believed that nothing had to be atoned, everything absolved.

That was my past, and what a blind, naive hope that past was.

I've given up on life. Just going through the motions now: wake up, school, homework, think, sleep. What's the point of living if everyone you care about does not appreciate you?

No one does, not at all: the people who say they do only say they do because they see a dollar sign or an opportunity on your back, and, like everyone in this hopeless race, take immediate advantage of any one of these oases they see.

I stepped close to the cliffs far more than once, and teetered on the border between two worlds for far too long a time. But crossing, crossing that dammed line. The inspiring voice in my head, that inner hope that spoke, ugh. Just when you don't need it.

Retreating into myself, I find solace, but for a brief moment.