You walk slowly. You look around and the world doesn't seem so bright. Once, you looked at people running around, all so caught up in their little have-to's, of the day and it seemed colorful. But now, they just feel more distant. More like enemies. Annoying, really.
The night is dark but, in a busy city street, you would never find peace. You wonder if you would ever find peace... anywhere. Probably not. It was all lies. Stupid every day lies to keep you going. There can't be such thing as happiness.
You pass by that little funfair you used to go to as a child. You look at little ones laughing while running around in their little rain boots. October. It rained earlier and the streets are wet. You can see the reflection of the lights on the ground. You take a last glance at the kids again, only to feel sorry for them. They'll pay the price of innocence. It's all ahead of them. You wonder why nobody warns them.
And just when all hope looks lost. Just when you feel like you have no one to talk to because no one will ever understand, you sit on a bench by the funfair, open your backpack and take out that little book you've been carrying around for weeks. Then... something magical is about to happen.
The book is full of mirrors. You can see yourself in them. You can see the funfair but... they look way more beautiful. Like they're part of a painting. Like they're art. You're art. That poet who drew here knew you. He must have anyway even if he lived centuries ago. And then you discover the core of human existence. You certainly are not alone. No more than anyone else. No more than the poet who wrote the book and... you now look at the funfair again and it still looks pretty through your eyes. Just like that, the poet saved you.

by Elena Ktenopoulou

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