Inaccurate accusations are all the more terrible for allowing actual inadequacies to go unrecognised. Underestimated and reduced to the level of rubble in the street, I find this is where the devil lives. The imaginary line between one and none, money and no money, success and mediocrity. The subdued murder of human spirit by systematic sufferance apparent on both sides of the tracks. 

It is as much my world as yours whether poor or rich, rich or poor with whichever shade of skin may be and whatever lies in your heart or between your legs. Neither mine to tell you nor yours to tell me but ours to discover, ours to discuss, to challenge. But also ours overtaken chasing fool’s gold missing real riches. 

Ours where the fear of losing what amounts to nothing has obscured losses already accrued. Gone by unnoticed the luxury to stop, sit, and consider. Unnoticed again the loss of time given to what money that we lose time in chasing cannot buy. Unnoticed until the brakes came on. 

We Stopped. 

We stopped, thank god we stopped. We lost but lost less. We still lose. Nobody wins, we simply lose less badly. Some cry out ‘this is not living’. Neither is dying. We lost. We still lose. We lose as inane unpleasantries remind us how the line some idea lays in the sand puts some ideas into some minds to imagine theirs is ‘above’, solely for the zeros on papers in their wallets. 

Inaccurate accusations are all the more terrible for allowing actual inadequacies to go unrecognised. Presumptuousness is a two way street. The decaying drain of artificial edifices on the assumer’s vertigo belies a beauty hidden within a sickness I understand less than my own. Reverse bigotry is still bigotry, it completes the circle. 

Can scrolls of varying degrees and high formal intelligence forge a path accepted by street smarts floating above the rubble or will the scoundrels of the streets and the walled streets imprison this world of ours for good. But ours perhaps now less overtaken chasing gold missing riches. Ours we find we can still laugh and cry over. It’s ours to discover and discuss as if seeing light for the first time. Ours to listen to. Ours to calm ourselves down and hear, even if only for the smallest, the most minute and minuscule, the quietest of sounds.