Sketchy

A room. Not too big, not too small, but its crowded and overflowing whether silent or screaming.

Sharp glances, long stares; look around.

In the corner is a woman who should not be sitting in the corner. This is apparent from the way she is talking to her son. Rotund, bobbing along, she announces to the world that her son has gone through a traumatic day. That would be corroborated by her prescence in this room, as well as the scrapes and bruises on his legs. She sits again and stares at everyone, beady eyes shining.

What we do have in the center of the room are two girls. They aren't old, they aren't young. Barely wearing clothes, they carry on a loud conversation as if they were in a small secluded area adequate for a discussion of such things as they discuss. One wonders what they are doing in this room.

Another corner of the room holds an amusing couple- ah, the door has opened- who will be taken next?

A name is read from a long, long list. This person has been released, they are gone; the door closes again.

On returning to the amusing couple, we find that they have hardly been interrupted from their work- both sit, transfixed by the date books and schedules before them as they work to plot out every day coming ahead. Not only are they deeply involved in this task, but they believe everyone else in the room must be made aware of their lives, also. We wonder why they are in this room.

A phone rings; droning. A woman answers, questioning the identity of the caller. Further discussion reveals she has just failed to recognize her own daughter's voice. We look at one another, and question her, silently.

When others are silenced and we sit in our stupor- a girl sullen and sickly tries to pretend the man next to her is not her father, others gaze vacantly, others are asleep- the sounds from otherwheres seep into our awareness; we hear in the distance a screaming child being brought to our room. He doesn't stop screaming when most of the room is silent; it turns out he couldn't be expected to. He doesn't have to wait for the door to open, for him to be chosen.

Nonetheless, it is not the best room for him to be in. He should probably be in a better room, one that has people in it who will not botch their assistance to him, people who are competent in their field. His parents have made an incorrect choice, and displaced the order of many who were waiting.

I sit here still. Time has passed and many people, too, but I still remain. They do not know what to do with me. I wonder why I am in this room.

This is humanity; caged, it is in a box. Prisms of light come into and leave the room, but we find that though the room contains but a small slice of humanity, it is enough for a broader understanding, and possibly a particular amount of ridicule.