The Kingdom of the Ill

by lcynderl

Beneath the feet of a hurried crowd the cobblestone chatters, speaking of all the tales that has been hidden behind these walls. The tales that speak of those with broken limbs, failing arteries, sight of the unseen, paranoia of things around them, and even those in impeccable condition.
Children from vast origins line up eager to be admitted entrance into the gates. Filing in behind, marching, are their parents, grandparents, siblings, anyone, and everyone. All of them are so gravely ill.
Some should walk out with bandages, medicines, crutches, a new mind set, and some should not have made a single change. However they all are diagnosed with something terrible. With only one cure many are far too afraid of. For the only cure for the horror of living is the beauty of death.
What connects each and every beating heart other than the one thing each one is sick with? For living causes the wicked ones to accomplish their deeds, and the naïve to continue breathing without an evil thought.
Living allows the tongue to form lies, the heart to create hate, and the mind to muster up revenge. People become bitter and spiteful due to others of their kind acting upon such cynical thoughts. Such thoughts tainted with sinful avarice.
This sickness leaves these patients terrified of this world, anything may cure them of this disease, however many do not mind that. Countless souls have such a fear of breathing, of having their heart continue beating, and these souls plot their own demise. While others despise the existence of other minds out of revenge, greed, fear, and any other humanly thought.
So while all these diseased and stained minds crowd together, a single boy analyzes the faces around him. Scarred, sick, pale, dark, dirty, and even clean faces hurry around the boy. And as the child tries to perceive the intentions of the ill, he notices that the most brute looking of faces still shed a tear. He notices that no one can truly hide their fears.
This is why all people are the same until they are in such a cadaverous state. Each soul alike, all with different intentions, but all have the same violent human nature.
The little boy can stop and stare, but to dive into the mind of another seems inevitable. Although every soul suffers from the same sickness, every heart with the same diseased beating, people believe they are different from one another. How can one’s mind even comprehend the fact that it’s not unique? Far outside of a single person’s looking glass lies every other creature alike. And everyone, every single person, has the same nature. Even the innocence of a small child is corrupt.
Each one walking on the cobblestone ground, every person a victim of this sickness. They only have one way out of this establishment. And that is the beautiful miracle of the deceased.