The Truth [unfinished]

People have forgotten the concept of truth. We no longer hunger for the pure, unpolluted words of truth, we merely settle for what we are fed from the likes of the church, media, and the government.
I often find myself questioning what destroyed the ruthless quest for enlightenment, for freedom, for hope. Did our substance just fade, just as the years have? Passing interminably like the process of leaves falling from a tree, the bloom has past, all thats left is the bare skeleton, the beauty on hold, untill spring, like the beauty is on hold in life. When shall be our next bloom? We have been dead for so long, spring hasn't came.

Laying on his bed staring at the clock, time seemed insignificant, it had become a process like everything else, not halting to allow him too breath, not quickening to set him free, it was just a mechanical tick providing another limitation to his day.
Processes like the "career ladder", you are pushed and encouraged to try to reach the top, but when you get there, the view isn't so breath taking, the lands decaying as the clock keeps ticking, and all that remains in the horizon is the material reminants of your climb, no substance to hold on to.
Rattling his head from side to side, pushing away his thoughts, he rose from his bed, leaving the imprint of his slim body on the yellowing sheets. Reaching into his wardrobe he clutched his bony fingers round a thick wound rope, after a few more grasps into the thick blackness his other hand found its way to his outdoor jacket, and with these he slipped back out into the stale air of his bedroom.
The metallic hand approached 3pm, a signal for him to gather his rucksack and his other essentials and embark on his quest, for truth.
The warm air enveloped his body as he stepped out onto the overgrown pathway that led to his house, pushing past the bare branches that attempted to consume the garden.As he gazed to the hazy sky he saw that he would have many more hours before sun down as its rays continued to blaze down on his rusty coloured hair. Cars were parked neatly on the pavement aside the church on the corner, he took advantage of the convienance of car windows acting as mirrors checking over his unbrushed hair and unshaven pale face, while sniggering at the thought of the niave minds consuming what he only described as fools gold, or in his harsher words, complete bullshit.
The narrowing and winding pathway to "Coalmans Peak" soon seemed interminable as stones made there way under the soul of his shoe, puncturing his ageing soles, interfereing with his eager step.With every stumble his thoughts would be interupted temporarily by the reminder of similar times, the feet which sent him down every few metres in the sterile bustling corridor full of blurring sterile faces. Pushing back the thoughts he clenched his fists determind to keep moving, to keep progressing through the uneven ground.