Another Sunday closing, weep and mourn the passing of time. Equipped with intrepid and tenacity, one can only hope to be forward-looking and yearn for the best. Lean ahead and tilt over; dashing in this rat race for glory or survival?

The stench of corrosive character is unbearable. And yet the source of this putrid odor is starkly obvious. It sticks out like a sore thumb, and you know it's budding inside you but you can only shut your weathered eyes and pray that the germination will cease. At least the gestation period is long; it is slowly and surely approaching, a mediated torture coming your way.

Shutter. The flashing lights and a blaring cacophony of alarms. The spotlight is on you and alas, the chase is over. You have nowhere to run; the labyrinths are locked down and faced with your silhouette, you unveil the shady character. No more running, no more hiding.

Slumped to the ground in desperation and hopelessness. You cradle yourself in comfort, caressing your grimy body and collecting the tattered remnants of your shaken dream. It is a lost cause but you console and convince yourself into pulling through this fight. If it's not yours to win, it must at least be yours to survive.

The barracks are emptied, gone the flock of soldiers boasting about how they would stand the trials and tribulations of the treacherous weather and brutal enemies. The only remaining souls are as literal as they are termed, wandering with lost glory and pride, never to be seen whole again.

You strip to your bare body and cuddle in silence.

The barrack is not empty. It embodies a fallen individual, longing for a second chance; a rebirth.

No one gives a shit.

There he lays, buck naked, stormed by the heat and chill, longing to be rediscovered.

What do I want to be when I grow up? What can I be? What will you let me be?

I was born to be wild.

Why won't you let me be?