They sit there with faces waiting for someone to ask them their story, but no one ever asks. Hard faces. Cold faces. Faces that say, "Don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't ask." But inside is a desire to the tell story. But no one ever asks. Soon, the mask is all that remains, a mask devoid of emotion, unless uncaring is an emotion. I don't know. I see the reason the mask takes over. This city makes you hard. A little too crowded, a little too impersonal. It's cold here. A cold that comes from a lack of need. Individuality stops existing.
I wonder what Asian countries are like? Do they have passion? Do they let it show? I'd like to care but I'm afraid to.
I helped an old man stand up on the train. His legs didn't quite have the strength anymore. This small gesture made me feel human again, but I didn't ask him, I had to be asked. No one else even looked. I see people here, but people are a problem. PERSONS are not. PERSONS are individuals, worthy of a smile, of a hello. People are cattle. Do your little job, don't crowd me. My soul tells me it will never stop. Too bad. All the persons are worth it; the people just have to go. "We the people...."? No, we the persons, but there's too many voices now, so only the loudest can be heard and the loudest are not necessarily the most important.
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