I was seventeen years old, and stuck in tumultuous times, a poverty-stricken era where the only order was disorder. Everything around me was a calamity, and everything beneath me had been forgotten. The streets had no names, and neither did the people that inhabited them. All that was left was the need to survive, but without the reason to do so. No one bothered to use their mind anymore. The supposed "common sense" we once automatically had became a rarity, and it was as if humanity entirely lost sight of what it once strove for.
To be honest, this was no worse than the world I originally entered. The only breach was that I had a name. I still have one, but the greatest difference was that it once meant something. Perhaps it did not mean anything significant, but it did matter to someone. When I was younger - about a decade before this time - when someone called my name it had purpose and feeling. Regardless of what that purpose or feeling was, there was reason to address me. These times, however, were deviant. In these times, a name served no purpose.
Somewhere along the way, I too lost sight of my ambition. I cannot recollect what the trigger was or exactly when it occurred, but I do remember how it felt when I forgot about my soul. When I used to eat chocolates or other sweets that tickled my taste-buds, an in particular, warm sensation would devour me while I devoured the treat. However, once my soul surrendered, it did not matter what I was consuming, only that I was consuming. I had no appetite for enjoyment, and this loss was no problem solely since the remembrance of needing something sweet had fleeted my system altogether. Much like eating, everything else I did was conducted by my body's automatic nature to carry on. Perseverance was no longer a necessity. A soul retained no promise.