The Old Man

The old man made his way to an empty bench in the middle of the park. It was twilight still, and he could feel the wet grass between his toes. A crisp breeze parted his scrubs at the back to expose his grey, bed-ridden body.. Now this was living!

He fell down onto the bench as softly as he could, and placed the brown paper bag he was carrying onto his lap. The packet crinkled as he opened it, and he pulled out a joint. At least that's what the security guard had told him. Either way, he was a lovely young man, he thought as he breathed life into the rebel cigar with a flame. Then he sat back, exhaled, and gazed into the empty fields and trees as the sun popped up behind them. He could nearly see the sun yawn as it climbed out of the trees to begin it's evolution through the next 24 hours. A cycle which would one day end. How beautiful it all was really. And here he was, a part of it.

Wasn't it funny how, whenever you started a sentence with 'when I was your age', they always fell on deaf ears? Regret had made him ill you see. He'd spent fifty years breathing in oil and metal smoke making somebody else filthy rich. What's advice when money spoke? Even if it not once said anything truly clever? Witty, even. Or had he never learned what sarcasm was?

It was times like this he really wished he had listened to what his mother had said. Really, he never listened. And now somehow, it had all caught up. He took another pull on the joint and blew the smoke into the breeze. Where were all these feelings before? How had they never been so clear before? He closed his eyes and tried to picture what his feelings looked like. The sun beat an image into his head. It was like an 'I told you so' between friends.

Now there was something he hadn't had in a while. Friends. All his favorite people were either dead or gone. And his wife... How he loved his wife. Even the kid, he pretended was his. He wondered if the boy ever found out the truth for himself.

Had all those years of resentment built up right under his nose and caused him to do what he did? Had they the right to leave him? Even after what they had done to him first?! Was spite always the last resort? Going about it easier always made it harder in the end.

But hard lives aren't always a bad thing. He could have been in hospital now! Regret was for the sinners. He was going places now. Moving up in the world. Him and his bench. He giggled as he rekindled the happy cabbage. He took a deep drag, and looked up into the sky. He smiled at the sun. The sun smiled back, warm on his face. He exhaled, sharing his smoke with the light.

The sky, from his eyes view, was blue. And the clouds that now came, ate the blue right up. His scrubs whisked right off of him. And through his spectacle lenses he swam. Into the clouds. The old man's body went numb, then went. And what once possessed it, now stretched out, engulfing galaxies. Those 'words' people used so lightly about such things; what were they but crackling on an old antique record? And through the static tickle, he felt immeasurable joy. Joy from just knowing everything. If he still had a body, it would of shat itself. In fact, it might already have anyway..

He felt his true connection, and suddenly became aware of his whole structure. His consciousness swam amongst all the others. Planets bobbed in the ripples. The orbits beat like a million hearts, beating the drum of life. Then all at once, everything became a purpose.

And purpose was out of balance.