People

They're made of skin and bones, freshly pumped crimson running through their fragile veins, thoughts and fears and technicolor dreams that emit light through the radiant sparkles in their eyes. Remarkable, sometimes helpless, sometimes misunderstood and sometimes magnanimous. Thinking,dreaming,loving grenades with skin sometimes sun-bronzed  and sometimes pale, some white and some in varying shades of brown. Some wish upon shooting stars and eyelashes.Some make machines, some are machines, while some are free in their own madness. 

Mostly fire with a crust of ice. They have the depths of the ocean within them .They all err sometimes, in fact they're made to err. Personification of the most perfect form of imperfection. 

They all have their ways to feel free.To Blow away like dandelion seeds? 
Some sing and dance and write, some laze with a good smelling old book, some rave and some choose intoxication.But free? That's an anomaly! They're strangled by society, culture and religion. Sometimes they're strangled by the very thought of being free. 
Their minds are trampolines and they all have invisible wings,believe me they do! They all fly in the wee hours before twilight to places that they want to see. Places where they feel free. Little caverns full of love and light. 
They fly in wakefulness too, through parts of their mind that they are ignorant about. 

You know what affects them the most? The same living, walking, temporarily beating and pumping material that they're made of. They all hate to hurt but they hurt each other. Some forgive and some don't. Some dwell and some forget. 

They build empires sometimes, earn a lot of green crisp paper, some live simply in little homes full of belonging. Some have never heard of love. They all suffer in the same quantity. Some are homeless and some live in white marble palaces.Some wear rubber gloves and have grease in their hair and some have a diamond band tied tightly to their wrist. Some eat sugar cubes and bread, they drink some water and fill their stomachs. Others fine dine in style. But they're all starved.

Looking for something that they don't know off. They know there's something out there. They don't know the shape, the color, the texture or the feeling. But they know its there. 
They're made of hope, people. 

Huge wells of hope and that's how they survive.