Pitch.

Headphone does not own.

Alas, we are always searching.

What for, right? When we find it, it's always the same thing, and when you come to this startling conclusion, you realize you don't need, or for that matter even want, it anymore. Or maybe it's not searching; maybe it's just acting, on instinct, realization, or just out of pure pleasure. But whatever it is, we, as a whole nation, elitist, or populous, are always trying to do the same thing over and over, with the same demeanors and misdemeanors, and expect different result with everything.

This is what some people like to refer to as 'insanity'.

Some are more affected by it then others, some realizing their mistakes after the second, third, fiftieth try, and some never learn. Yes, it is a sad concept to wrap your head around, a now-brain dead old man not understanding why his bicycle won't fit in the mailbox, but it is a plausible thought.

"Lucian, you're so full of shit."

This, this feeble attempt of conversing awkwardly with other civilians, was an almost perfect form of insanity. The attempt to lower Lucian's, the almighty elite leader and master of all things psychic, self-esteem to that of an every day average civilian. Pff, like that was even possible of coming across. You turn one corner and there's Ash Ketchum, a think-later trainer that originated from who-the-fuck-knows-where, and has nothing but this little mouse thing that seems to be level 100 yet can still loose to the likes of Roark. But like we all know and love, insanity is present in as many forms as there are clouds.

And, in case you haven't looked at the skies, lakes, or ponds lately, there are a lot of them.

"And you know, what, Aaron? I don't care."

"I don't get you."

This was not said with sarcasm, nope not one little vile of it. Completely from the heart and completely truthful.

"That had nothing to do with anything, but why? I'm not that complex am I?"

This, however, was loaded with the heaviest prescription of facetiousness possible to be drugged up on in one dosage without death.

Surely Lucian seemed to be a simple, narrow pathway that led from intellect to inform, but when you examined his little habits more, you would see new pathways where there was wall. He was like a labyrinth, with new puzzles at each corner, yet the end was unobtainable.

For example, at first you would see his reading a book and think 'loner', but then you examine how he'd read a book and see it was something else. When analyzing the main portion of a page, he would idly touch the back of his neck, revealing scars that led you to wonder 'what are those from', but he will never budge and call you a lying bugger and send you on your way.

Those scars are, if one were careful enough to pry from him, from a bed incident three years back when he got caught in the interception of one of Flint's rampaging pokemon, burning his hair and the back of his neck like it was an unpleasant cinder of a lost cause. He was always careful to hide his lack of carefulness, and between himself and the world he would hide. No one could get into his mind, and no one would leave it, just to keep everything he could in.

But wouldn't he eventually burst from the pressure?

"You, you're always doing odd stuff."

Stuttering, obviously. It was almost gross how easily the lisp, the error, was made and found.

"Like what?"

"When you sit down, you always hook your hand under the seat, almost looking for something."

It was true, after examination, he was alright with sitting properly, slouched with a hint of a tart aftertaste. It was all because of insanity, however. He was always expecting a bomb, a knife, a tracking device, gum at the very least. Maybe if he could pull McGuyver out of thin air he could create one of the listed, out of a blade of grass and a fragment of an eraser, but alas, he could do no such thing.

"It's, I do not."

"Do to."

"And what is it to you?"

True, what was it to Aaron? Who, as it may happen, was also suffering from this devouring insanity. As a nation, everyone had it, yet no one was willing to admit it in the slightest, since it was always that underlined truth like terrorism or school bullies.

It existed, yet so did the 'ignoramuses' that called themselves 'leaders'.

Aaron, however, was also one of these little 'simpleton that's not as simple as he seems.' When the boy was at the age of 8, he decided it upon himself that he would run away from home if he had to become the best pokemon trainer ever. And now that he had it, he didn't know what to do. He didn't plan the 'then what?' he only focused on the first part and now he was in despair.

There wasn't any way he could afford to loose his title, yet he was always so easily picked on, so easily ignored.

But, alas, he is, like us, searching for something. Something of importance and something of his absolute desire.

Though, with every approach he takes being the same one, he's loosing progress fast and he's been going strong in the lane of 'nowhere' since he can remember setting sail. Day in, and day out, it was the same conversations, only with an underlining hint of love mixed with rivalry and an asshole in the highest of dosages. He hated prescription, especially the kind that didn't help.

If anything, it was killing him slowly, like words without a wind.

"It's nothing to me, personally."

"Is it? Is it, really, truly, honestly nothing to you?"

Aaron could hear the way he stated the words, with sarcasm and mockery in his tone like the insanity in their minds. It was killing him to not speak up any higher, but it was all he could do to keep from loosing his mind permanently.

No.

He wanted to shout.

NO!

He cried, internally, begging for the pompous donkey in beautiful bloody suits to hear his pleading. Though, the command in his gut was lost along the way to his vocal chords, but still pried and scratched up and up. A balloon lost in the midst of fate and faith.

"You mean nothing."

If this exact moment was that moment that Aaron realized his pure and utter insanity, it was the moment he had given up. If this was the exact moment that Lucian could have felt more disappointed then words could even begin to explain, he would have told anyone that his response, his three words of complete and utter hope, was the defining line of it all.

"Are you sure?"

There was a last flicker of hope, barely there but struggling to stay afloat the waves of disconception and misfortune. Just a small, helpless, almost hopeless flame, blazing brightly in the coldness of hearts, lies, and lack of communications.

"Yes."

And with that it was lost, to the ill-tempered winds and the unforgiving waves. And like some sheep seperated seemlessly from the heard of borthers and mothers, sisters and fathers, the conversation went without avail, with its lost words and whispered apologies.

But, alas, we are always searching.