The Purposeless Man
by Philip Brocklehurst
Here I stand, a ghost in the machine, sealed in my confined box, wrapped in a fleshy container that feels no sensations.
I long to know the senses that others feel that I am so devoid of: warmth, joy, importance, love. I yearn to feel, to be felt. Alas I can not for I am a being of no worth, cold, distant, meaningless and unwanted by all.
I desire to express myself. Everything I say, everything I do is as invisible as I am to others. They can not see me, nor do they care.
I'm the loner standing on the other side of the mirror to society, surrounded by my reflected loneliness.
I mean nothing to all. I strive to make contact but every time I am shunned. Rejected by all, judged before someone has even got to know me. Cruelty, sorrow and torment is that awaits my kindness, my sincerity, my love.
Everyone tries to bring me down, it's a struggle to rise up again. When I need a friend, the only shoulder I have to lean on is my own.
What is worthless