The rat 6 feet under

Sitting inside the air-conditioned piece of concrete, with promises of life bellowing from the dead walls, my hopes crave for the sunlight, the purity it brings, for the promises made by it are not fake, they are warm and calm. The dead mass of electronics in front of me promises me of a better future, but that future is engulfed in dark, covered in desperation and stinking, shouting for satisfaction and happiness. 
The piece of cushion beneath me promises me of comfort, but wait, I remember my mother's lap. This cushion bleeds tears, tears of failure, tears of acceptance, tears of submission, tears of helplessness. The space around me is completely filled, yet woefully hollow. The life around me moves continuously, yet the dead are more alive. That feeling of buried under 6 feet of cool and moist soil. No one can count your tears, your eyes are closed, the sombre is eternal, its calm there, the silence engulfs me, I can't move a limb, but do I need to move? I can be whatever I want, I can be myself, the rats around me are not running a race here, they are just rats, just surviving their lives through, like I did. I was probably the slow rat, a rat with high ambitions, but not high enough to win the race. Maybe the rat who won the race is happy now, satisfied, but did he try the cool and moist soil 6 feet under? I bet NO, he didn't.