Pavilion of Identities: Aisle of Hatred

- This is a work of fiction -

A lonely group of people embraced the quietness of the pavilion. Shivering from their own shadows. They walked down the aisle of hatred and they tried to love others. They told me that they needed me to help them feel love again.

A truth from the worldwide culture of alcohol and sex and drugs and doing absolutely nothing. A norm, yet we accepted and lived through it. A norm, yet aren't we but normal people?

But they still sought my help. They wanted me to prove them wrong; that they could love and be loved. Having lost all sense of direction, they were in a bleak state of utter despair. They anticipate nothing, not even their state of living. 

But they wanted me to give them a reason to be missed. They wanted to end their lives, yet they wanted their legacy to remain. A corrupted sense of pride, I thought. But what if I used to be them? Have I ever considered how human it is to feel loneliness and having thoughts of giving up?

Do they understand the truth? Do I understand them?

I used to be them. I used to be me. That was the me that I hated, but that was the same me that defined the present me. Until they're gone, I would have never known of their importance in my life.

I step forward and peeked over the bridge. An endless abyss, all leading back to the same pavilion. The same dark pavilion. The same dark place I never wanted to be in again. Yet, I learned the way out, but not how to figure a way out.

We're learning something every day, aren't we?

But we all dream and we all wake. It's a cycle of life, between cold hard reality and the comfort of a personal fantasy. Yet, if this fantasy looms over you like a dark cloud of your very own shadow, it would be better not to dream at all. Reality ain't that bad.

Or so we thought.

But which is worse, to live in a dream or to dream to live?

We're just so damn tired from it all.

And I used to think that I'm different. I thought I was unique, deserving of all the friendships and love and praise. I thought I have escalated past the pedestal of being human.

But I'm them and we're we.

We stare at the aisle of hatred from an isle afar. We swim closer. Those great white jaws and those electrifying jelly stings. We risk it all. We are almost there. 

Why are we swimming towards an aisle, much less an aisle of hatred, if the isle is connected to all the world's lands and seas through the very same blue that is leading us to the aisle of hatred?

A cramped aisle, dirty yet comforting, for we feel protected, by all the rubbish around us, from all the rubbish around us.

As we walk down the aisle, what can we possibly witness, other than the cries of our own shivering shadows?