The Weight of Neverending Solitude

In every day life’s moments that could inspire one to be great or small, there are some; for all their cries of, look at me; who shall be left in their pit of misery, for they inspire no compassion in those with the means to their salvation. None should say, in private or public, they care; if the evidence can’t be found by those who truly need that care. Some who do, may not be obvious, but if anyone truly wants to be called human, they should be able to pay attention, anyway. A hermit becomes, when no one cares to make sure their face is seen. A dying heart is supposed to be a tragedy, except when others determine, it’s not my problem. Then it just becomes a bleak sore on the landscape.