Kian's World of The Word.

[Kian]

An Introduction into The World of The Word.
From within the chamber, he could see everything, yet was nothing. The cold gray steel panes encapsulated him in the vast room, inspiring a claustrophobic feel no matter the size of the room. Screens whirring with life coated the surface of the walls and ceilings, covering his view with fantasy, reality, drama, culture. But he was trapped, confined to this room to behold in it the vast universe of the imagination, left to wander, endlessly. His bright eyes wandered across the room, basking in the sheer volume of the stories left undocumented, unknown to the rest of the universes. The onyx pupils darted frantically from screen to screen, absorbing the lost tales as quickly as they were created, yet they could only view each for its fragment before another replaced it.
His pale fingers brushed against the sights before they left the scene and continued to the next, each one with its own excitement within, a simple story to be told and understood, yet left unheeded and unheard. If only there was escape from his eternal, timeless prison, but hope faded as quickly as it had arrived as reality had left him. There would be no escape. Despite his loneliness, he was not alone, for he was surrounded by those like him, unheard, unseen, unnoticed, yet existent to each other. He was only an observer to the art, a telescope into the stars, a peeper through the keyhole into the world of the word.

 

[Kian]

The Keyhole into Appearances.
He sat with me on the bench, tired, wrinkled, and pathetic. The old man was seated with a slouch, obviously uncontrollable, with his cane held in his splotchy fingers across his lap. Grayed from age, his cap sat atop his thinning white hairline, holding patches which were proudly adorned on the left and behind of it. Just beneath his bushy and furrowed gray eyebrows, his golden brown eyes stared forward, unmoving, as if weighed down by his tired eyelids, staring at a far off place, but remained resolute in its task. The crooked nose held a bandage across and a pair of spectacles, the thin and gold rims precariously balanced atop the nostrils. He held a stoic frown upon the cracked pair of lips, held taut and closed, yet his laugh lines held another story. The shoulders were hunched forward, at ease, coated by a thick brown wool scarf and a dark quilted blanket. Underneath the layers of elderly warmth, he wore a thick coat with an oddly pressed, light brown pair of fatigues tucked into a small pair of work boots.
"Who are you?"
The question was left unanswered as my view traveled back up.
He wore a loose fitting brown pair of fatigues, loosely tucked into his work boots. A light brown coat adorned his confident straight shoulders. A multitude of pockets were sewn onto the jacket while a strap held a rough backpack onto his back. His face was held high with a light grin. While his nose still held a bandage, the old glasses were absent from obstructing his golden chocolate-colored eyes, opened wide to the world. His brown eyebrows sat firmly in place beneath his disheveled hair, which was hidden under a dirty hazel helm. He sat up, at the edge of his seat with a rifle held at the ready across his lap.
A young soldier sat with me on the bench, young, fit, and eager.