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    I’m watching this man, as he stands in the pouring rain.  He’s sweating from nervousness, despite the falling water from the sky, this is evident.  He struggles so hard with issues I’ve already come to terms with; I want to smack him, throw him into epiphany through physical means, and punish him insolence.  This man knows not the treachery that a woman can hold.  His tears match mine, all the days ago when streaks of clear pain stained the frost bitten cheeks of my agonized face.  He’s crying in such the same instances, and yet still struggling.  He wants to keep her around, and yet he knows more pain is to come, something worse than his current state.  Still standing under my black umbrella combating the strikes of god’s fury, I continue to gaze.  Still this man stands about his concrete square crying, pouring his soul out from his eyes.  I want to help him, but he’s on the other side of the street.  I know better than to cross on red.
    I have no place in his life, we lead different paths.  I see myself an individual audience watching the nonfiction play of another individual’s digression to the soil.  I’m married to the cast of this play, but I have no place beyond the audience.  These worlds are separated by forces I can’t conquer.  The stage is life, and the audience another.  I suppose I should revel in the delight that my pain, caused purely from witnessing the destruction of a heart, and man, can be settled purely by closing my eyes and ears, and living devoid of sympathy for those I have an affinity for.
    Marching over as I would to aid him would be to no avail, his anguish is torn.  I recall a book that seemed to become somewhat of a part of figurative language-“Catch 22”.  This man can’t bare the thoughts of losing this gem in his world.  He loves her, I can sense that, but such emotions are feeble, at least for another.  One’s love for one’s self is the only true love a soul should search for.  It’s simple to subject one’s body and thoughts to another, and allow one’s self the infatuation that stride with ignorance, but to sacrifice the morals, vices, stereotypes, and illusions that restrict self love is the only true battle to face.  Love for another, as impermanent as life itself, and yet this man still stands in the rain, bleeding the hypocrisy, that love is great, as he exemplifies his own oblivion.  Finally he embraces her in his arms.  Her hair is drenched, and draped about her rain coat.  Love holding them as tight as the hug they are consuming one another in, and he sobs more.
    The sky settled a bit, and a few silent tears dripped from my eyes to the ground.  I’m sorry for this man; I know the pain he will soon endure. “I truly hate being young…” I stated to the next pedestrian who walked past and had enough character to look at my eyes.  They paused unsure what to say, nodded their head, and walked on.  I bean to think as I turned and walked away from the scene, I need fresh blood and I need new eyes.  One more thought rose about the day, and before I could grasp the meaning of my own philosophy, slowly it sank out of sight.