You see the chains binding your arms, the burdens that weigh so heavy in your arms, when they scream your name you remember you hate them, when they weep the bitter tears of pain you resent them for the pain they are to you. But what about the castaways? The long forgotten shackles that lay still on the ground, their captives free, living, active. Where do we stand when we have no one to keep. Why do we stir, what breathe brings us to our primordial constancy.
I think I'm asking: if no one cares, where does purpose lie?
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