Cup of hate
While the lands and wind ungoverned by rooftops and warmth stay colder than sharp ice, the struggle held on by the young boy ventured on while continually suppressing his inner desires to break free from the clutches of barbed relationships. Every morning he normally wakes up as any consistent student would do to brush his teeth and take a shower in preparation for class.
His life is as meaningless as a rock on solid ground. His earnestness is penetrative but weak and dull. His idea of a utopia is absurdly disjointed. His mark in the world has already been charred black in history, never to be talked about and remembered. A convoluted memory of mystical propaganda.
The security nods at his appearance as he passes the front gate. 'Him again,' his paranoia whispers. He greets him in normal fashion anyway and goes on to the other window and greets the other guard, a typical, grumpy British bloke whom he loathes in some unexplained manner. The guard just nods as if annoyed of having to see this poor fellow's face once again.
He walks on into an area filled with cobblestones. Slightly annoyed at first, he grew out of it immediately after the initial walks. His ways of adapting to certain conditions are quite astounding to say the least. By this time he sprints hastily towards the derelict structure on the near edge of the pathway. Constantly trying to avoid tardiness was his main morning antagonist. There was no other way than procrastinating and adjusting to the behaviour. It was his own personal pet peeve that could have been easily taken care of.
He stayed on that structure for the entire morning. His training is intensive but insubstantial. It takes hardcore dedication to achieve the necessities mandated by the module, although his motivation needs a little bit of boosting so to speak and the bounties are still questionable in nature. He regrets the fact that his ignorance got the better of him and his whim duly appointed.
He exited the high studios with more frustrations than ever before. He is tasked to deal with nincompoops from the inside. The less worst of their kind, fortunately, but nonetheless still horrendous notwithstanding. These are the pretentious types. The ones with the gift of gab with a mind of a blueberry seed. Those that are able to get away with things just because they have the ability to mask away their not-so-blatant idiocy but still idiots nonetheless. The faux intellectual. 'I'm smart because I thought of this, but to be honest I'm only just using rhetorical paradoxes to confuse the fuck out of you, clueless people.'
He was one of the clueless people. Only realising that fact after much review and thinking at home. He knows how deep the flaw of the system was, he was well aware of the fact that no matter how much he resisted it was to no avail. To them, he was the enemy, the obnoxious, misanthropic asshat who enjoys injecting misery upon others.
If only they knew he was more than that and what he was truly capable of. The mysteries lies in the form of broken shards of the future. Only then when reconnected does the ambiguity finally unravel itself.