A chance against the wind

The blonde boy walks down the street away from me and I wonder what he’s thinking. A little fragile figure trotting down the street, helpless against the world, against his future. I wonder whether I judged him too fast, whether I looked at him like at a black and white picture, when really he was a canvas full of rainbow-flowers. Because our souls ache, all of them, even those that seem simple. Your simple soul makes me wonder, what are you hiding? He hides behind the TV, behind the games, behind the silence, and I wonder why. Maybe inside you’re fighting some battle, a battle known to no one but you, and the world judges you by your silent lips and your lifeless eyes, and your weak posture. I try to picture you as a child, back when the world still had no effect on you, back when the world was a game to you, back when you crafted it yourself and lived beneath your safe creation. But those built stones shatter, we grow and learn that we don’t have a chance against the wind, the world will take you and thrust you under its own wheel, and if you learn to steer too late, you might risk losing it all. Am I risking it all?