Am I a master of minutia? Or am I just a hackneyed hack of trite trivialities? I am at odds with myself. I have an unrequited love with the gifts that I possess. I nurture them so. I fertilize my talents with fervor and practice. Yet, they yield no crop or capital from the seeds that I have sewn. The storm rages on within the catacomb of my dystopian mind. I am pacified by the zombies of a plague-ridden world. The reality around me is filled with hollow husk beings who retreat from the light and champion nothing. These ravenous shadows remain as sucklings to the material addictions found in the screens of their electronic devices; their vices to synthetic validation. I am out of place, and I can only feel unwelcomed. They claim to have love, they claim to have goodness. Through a guise of genuine care, they betray and abandon simply because they can only know greed and self-preservation. We are a nation of polarization, and those left in the middle will only fall to the depths of forced silence. My cries cannot compete with the screams of the ignorant. Ignorance is like wild mint. It can taste and smell wonderful, but it’s still an invasive species of weeds. Which is the greater pestilence? Time can only tell.