Barath knew nothing of good tidings, of love, of family. He lived the life one coin at a time, a pusher after the next on what feeds this talking ache. He had a way once, a life, a family, a provider for his ills. He never had to know such grievances. He never had to know such faults. He never had to suck in smoke from someone's old cigarettes. He never had such clothes. He never knew friends like the boned one in the black cloak. The man in the corner who had his last bonfire from the drum, he'll be the next. The child in that ladie's arms has been long dead but she just can't let her go. They are family, they are friends.
He was a child once, and like a child he didn't have to cling to life. Life just opened up to him. But that faithful accident one night by the river. He first found out how to fly. He was washed away clean of his thoughts. He was washed clean of everything. His prized possession long gone. He only knew he was Barath. The last few letters stitched on his shirt as a teen. If only something could jolt his memory. If only he knew what he did. He wouldn't question what he sees everyday. He wouldn't have to be where he is.
There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no dark or no light path. There is the void, there is the calmness and if you listen closely you can hear them like he does. No amount of the past of what he knew of the future would dim them out. You only have to pretend they aren't there. He learned well. He learned really well. People are living ghosts to him everyday.
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