Here stands a man, who has a boy loved to climb trees and run around outside all day, who now lives within himself and doesn't go anywhere. A man who revolts against everything including life itself, a man who doesn't live life, he merely just lives. He's become merely a thing, not even invisible just something that is there and nothing else. Something to be just passed by, something without a story or even a name. Someone who lives less than a shadow.
Life has passed him by so much that he no longer remembers his own life. Memories just blur into one another and come and go like a gentle breeze through branches, a cruel reminder of the dreams he was too scared to chase. By the time he gathered the thirst for life that we take for granted like the air or the weather, he found that the life he wasn't brave enough to live, had rooted him to the only pathetic spot of earth that he seemed to have ever known. He could no longer go anywhere, even if he wanted to. He felt surprised that the