Distant

Part 2

I wake up in a panic. I am not longer in the sun-filled, grass landscape. Rather, I am in a world of derelict buildings, run down cars, poor street maintenance and people who reek with the essence of depression.

Oxygen has been replaced by melancholy. The clouds hover in the sky, blocking the sun from letting its light on the people who want it desperately. The sight of anything with color is a miracle.

I am standing at the corner of one of the streets, staring at everything in my surroundings. It is shocking how fast everything seemed to have changed. No cars pass by; all remain still. The corner of the street has the curb completely gone and nothing really seems to be in decent condition anymore.
The citizens here all wear clothes that looks like they should have been washed years ago. Tears destroying each seam. Some are clothes too small, while others are massively oversized.

I walk down a jagged sidewalk that seems as if a earthquake has split it. Cracks are everywhere. The citizens' heads look at nothing but the ground as they walk, avoiding contact with one another. I begin to wonder what has caused them to feel this way.

The look of depression fills their faces from ear to ear. Injury plagues each and every one of them, affecting their ability to walk. Whenever a word is spoken to one another, it is never positive. Pessimism stuffs the air to its capacity. It brings me back to what it is like at my house with my mom.

I start thinking about her and everything she has done for me. I mean, her actions are beyond irritating though. She is constantly trying to control me in every way humanly possible. I get that she wants to help, but is it really doing me any good?

Whatever this world is, no one is happy here. It is blatantly obvious. The depression that fills the air almost reminds me of my house. The filthiness enters my lungs with each breath. I hate it.

The looks on all these people faces are so empty. It is rare to just get a glimpse of one. They remind me of my mom's face. Her eyes never hold any emotion since my dad died. The sparkle that was once there is not anymore, and I do not know how to fix it. She is either crying or yelling. The stress and depression has blanketed her soul from the ecstatic woman she once was.

Was yelling back at her for bothering me while smoking a good idea? Maybe it wasn't. She had no business telling me what to do, but then again she doesn't want me to go through what my father did.

Maybe I should try to help her get better. After all, she is my mother.