The woman guru watchers have an unexplainable chance of vulnerability. I haven’t in years been so appalled with this sight. Their faces covered in grease and cheeks cherry red from the blush and the liquor. Fabricated in an anti-modernist ideal, they adhere to two decades worth of standstill. When I leave downtown after work, I see taxi’s as the rats of the city, and I wonder if the human being will ever be able to use what was given to them; or be able to take care of themselves. The monotonous exile of urbanization, leaves me cold withered and victimized by nature itself. But by the mourning returns the light, fanning off the anger, and leaving a rare renewal. I seek such immediate rejuvenation, yet it refuses to come. I seek stronger layers to push up from underneath and reveal a truer sense of self. To associate seeking with no efforts, is something sickly or pathetic. The validation of my purpose is not in my own achievement, but in the progression of others. I must conjure with my heart and introduce change as the only possibility.
—A
