Sparingly Human

The sound of his footsteps echoing down the empty street offered him a systematic sense of stability. The gravel on the side of the road grazing the soles of his shoes reminded him that he had life in him. The smell of rain, which was prominent in the air; and the final, minuscule droplets of water that occasionally patted down onto his heavy coat reminded him of tears of a hot friend cooling.

He was a man with a heavy heart and he thought that all was lost. A terribly groomed man with terribly gruesome thoughts who occasionally existed as he should. The notion of happiness never dawned on him. The sound of laughter ceased to touch his soul. He cannot remember the last time that he smiled nor can he remember the sound of his own voice. He wasn't sure what ailed him, but he knew that he wasn't well.

Every day, he'd go back home to an empty, hollow apartment with crannied walls that reminded him of himself. Every day, he slept on a bed so hard it kept him up all night, or at least that's what he's told himself. Every day, he'd ask himself if he was insane or in pain. And every day, he'd take a long walk down the sad, murky streets of London and hope that he might bump into someone that will help him make sense of things. He's yet to find that person, so until then, he shall keep walking.