You. From the ornate pillars looking down at them. You scoff as you mumble “Plebeians.” Their faces are the same from up here. Specks of treatment via genetic variety, the differences are the same from up here; you do not look bad from up here.

The common, as they are also called–scatter your brain from here. Their cries as they idolize the very ground they walk on- it is the same from up here. Nevertheless, it is not the same when you walk on. You are greeted with the barrage of fanfare, the questions you answer to pretend they know you a little more. It is a shame they cannot get to know you a little more, how can you interact with everyone and anyone on a personal level from up here? Moreover, why would you go down there? The mob is restless and unruly; they cannot see you from up here. However, you are dear to them down there.

Send a personal message through impersonal channels that you are just like them, but remind them, subtly you are not like them. Transparent vulnerability sheepishly masked with a thin vail of honesty. You rehearsed all your lines, so you are more than ready.  They know as much as you do when you speak about you.

Time goes on with no maintenance or regard for feelings, and the pillars become weak. Once the pillar melts from the sun, the verbosity of staged performances wear thin and predictable, you have met the fall. You fell so quietly that you find yourself one day, itching to take a peak down and realize that down is meeting you eyelevel. Standing on common ground. The people will see you for your entirety and know that you are not of them.

Just like you wanted in the old days, and they kept your promise.