I sit alone in this small room, and there is nothing left. No windows, no doors, no tables. Only one small, dilapidated chair in the corner. The chair is roughly carved out of wood, nothing special. But if you look closely, you can see tiny marking carved into it, Flowers, animals, trees, houses, swirly designs. Making it a beautiful work of art. Yet no one sees this. They just see a chair. Because people are too happy in their blissful ignorance. This chair has been sat on, stood on, and even thrown. Yet it still stands, just. It stands because it is sturdy, and strong. Yet it’s starting to fall apart. The seat is worn, the leg is broken, the carvings chipped. It did what it had to do, Even though no one stained it, Even though no one mended it, Even though no one was careful and cautious. It still stood, and endured. If people cared for more then themselves, If people weren’t putting up walls If people weren’t wrapping themselves up in a tight cocoon, Not being able to see though to the other side. Happy in their own little world. And because of these actions, the chair is going to break. Its going to fall, shattering into a million little pieces, The carving will be undistinguishable. Just because it looks hardy, and tough, doesn’t mean it is. Just because it’s made out of wood, doesn’t mean it’s not as delicate as glass. You should have cared for this chair more, But instead you set it on fire. And I still sit alone, in this small room with no windows, doors or tables. And if it’s not taken care of, soon to be no chairs.