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The Track
Once, there were times when the clothes one wore determined their life story. If one wore grey ragged sheets of rough fabric, he was homeless and jobless. If one was unshaven and old then the top of his hat was most likely tattered from the streets of the slums as he begged for money. Those who could not bear the sight of such were dressed in shimmering silks, smelling of cleanliness and screaming gold.
Thus it was inevitable that Sir Francis was astounded by the overwhelming diversity as his glowing hazel eyes absorbed the brightness of the night. His plaid grey suit, with the familiar structure of the old skill and the hand-sewn design, disguised him among the streaming crowd like a raindrop in a storm. Creatures with inner physical traits, with resemblance to humans progressed in the saturated streets; their world contained nothing other than a foreign sense of amour-propre.
Some of their heads were inhabited by a ball of unnatural origin covered by their hair. Some of their shoes sparkled odd colours in contrast to the things they wore upon their upper bodies. The fabrics were scandalous! Sir Francis was not entirely certain whether they were meant to save them from the cold of winter or simply be a new type of ‘style’. However, he could not help but gawk as – those he assumed as – young girls wore fabrics which outlined their body and showed their ankles.
As he carried himself through the throng of people, his feet were discomforted upon the uneven scars on the ground. The stones were inserted into the ground in a sequence, permanently remaining within the skin of Mother Nature. Indeed, the recipe of mud and northern weather may not produce a favourable mixture; nonetheless it would suffice.
Despite such facts, how could he question the ground when it was of the same significance as a speck of dust to the universe? At night, no light should be visible but the flames of one’s lamp and the beautiful glow of the moon. However, Sir Francis became enveloped in a suffocating stream of fluorescent light. Square boxes were inserted insultingly within the wonderful stone architecture of the town’s buildings; each one of them were pasted with such sharp colours that he began to question his very own sense of vision. Objects of similar shape and size were organised upon ineffective storage capacities within those booths; people would saunter in and out of them as they admired such things, much like one may gaze at paintings at a gallery.
Although his mind was intrigued by the extravagant difference in culture and society, he could not help but comment upon the nature of humans in the present state. The flamboyant ‘clothing’ appeared to resemble a lion’s mane or a peacock’s feathers; their aloofness to those surrounding them only symbolised their concern. Strangers interacted with strangers. There was a type of comforting satisfaction to be approached by one, it seemed (of course, it was only appealing by those who bore feathers).
Further on, Sir Francis could not help but notice a deep scar that ran along the ground. Unlike the wounds made from the stones, this was much more ferocious. A straight rusting dent carved into the ground, parallel to a few more. People walked upon them as if they were merely part of what belonged. However, to Sir Francis, it stood out like a drop of crude oil in water.
Boooooppp!!
Utterly taken aback, his shock caused him to physically retreat. A flash of yellow passed his eyes. A moment went by before he could comprehend the situation before him: an excruciatingly enormous bullet flew by. Perhaps it was what made the scars on the ground, he contemplated.
His eyes were larger than the moon’s as he looked up at it. Windows! The bullet had windows. Through them, he caught the wells of another; they held reflections of fatigue and sorrow. In that brief moment, he considered what it could be. Perchance it was a new transport for the sinned or the sick, for the possessed or the mad. No, it could not be as the bullet opened and the criminals and patients poured out like mice free from their cage. Immediately, they mingled in the water, spreading left and right before entirely becoming part of the current as they flowed through the stream. Like when a glass may be held into the ocean, when water came out more went in. Again, the yellow thing moaned before it carried people into the distance, shrieking that horrid noise. The penny had been dropped.
It was a weapon.
A weapon which carried its people to war; people who were defeated by the rules of the game. Not only could its physical features knock a bull over, but its delivery of humans in the midst of human traffic held its detrimental effects. Sir Francis could see it.
This was not a world of developed technology or advancements of the human brain. This was the yield of mankind. They no longer sought to survive. Survival was a burden. To make their lives more worth living, they made a fantasy world filled with artificial items to fill the void in their hearts. Sir Francis was unsure of what the void contained, but he knew it certainly lacked meaning, humility, will and the soul.
Observing the unfamiliar world around him, he was ashamed as he saw young men look in awe at the cubic glasses. They wanted those pair of shoes, that scarf and that top. Why? They would not know. It meant nothing other than the change of the unchangeable world of which they craved. It meant nothing if they did not play with the idea of attention. It meant nothing in the face of the universe.
Unnecessary production, unnecessary displays, unnecessary consumption.
What had the world come to?
Gazing down at his worn, black soles, he caught sight of a piece of paper upon the ground. There were many of them among the waste of others, but this one was just readable: “CH..TMAS!...SALE ENDS…”
Lost in thought, he murmured the last legible part aloud. “Twenty-five, twelve, thirteen…”
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