The Doomed Man's Scribe

You'll see that your life is still worthwhile if you'll just smile. Or not.

Sometimes, the moon's splendor is all it takes for me to feel something. Other times, even the birth of Jesus Christ himself cannot awaken the depths of my heart. The latter has been more true as of late. Am I a Psychopath, am I depressed, am I even human anymore? A human has feelings, right? The world surely cannot spin its dance without the harmony of all things, living included. Organic like a vegetable at a farmer's market-the flesh, the organs, the cells. They are what make me alive. But, the soul, now that's something that rests dreary upon my shoulders, often heavily. The soul has been gardening for many splendorous moons, but what crops has it yield? The soil must be infertile, as something simple cannot even flourish here. Here, I tick while the clock tocks, and even so, I cannot stop. Stop the soul from decay, living up to its truest form. The form I should have given it. The enriched soil it deserved. I am a doomed man, and so be it, to dust I will become. On the other side of the glass, a crowd gathered before him. None had the look of distraught in their eyes. They watched quaintly in their velvet seats, stricken with disgust. An excuse is all he could muster? For what he has done? The oak of the chair offered him a familiar feeling. Perhaps one he has not felt yet. He looked at his reflection amongst the one-way glass pane. He peered closely into his own eyes. There it was, a spark! Although, fleeting, the doomed man saw something from within him. A soul nonetheless, fighting for its way to be seen. But, in an instant, the only spark left jolted through him, operated by the executioner's lever. He was found guilty; guilty of being himself in a time where himself was just not good enough. And for that, he now dangled limply. The crowd cheered and hollered. Their mouths were gaped in utter enjoyment. Their smiles went on for miles. They just couldn't help themselves.