He wandered aimlessly through a park full of people. Everyone was there from his former knowing, anyone he had met whom had passed. He slid within them, like the faces, the bodies, were liquid. He knew not what he was nor where. He just kept walking.
Near him, a bench painted white and upon it a child dressed in blue, a boy dressed in black, and a man dressed in gold. All with equal spaces between them. He wore nothing, only his past. He suited well in bruises from his first fight and tears from his last cry; to them {he} was naked. Still, he just kept walking.
As {he} came closer, the bench seemed more used, the child dressed in punches, the boy dressed in fatigue, and the man; well, the man still dressed in gold. He began to choke some, finding it harder to breathe yet easier to see that things aren`t what they seem. The young child and boy were father apart, now, and the man in gold sat close to the edge ignoring the boy dressed in black. {He}, growing tired, just kept walking.
For some time he had been on foot, passing through faces for days, and weeks, yes? It surely would be nice to rest, and so the bench would have to do. Seven feet from him now, the bench was missing planks; well, you could hardly call this decaying board a bench. Six feet to it and he just kept walking.
Fist prints decorated the small child. Beaten with rules and regulations; common sense not so commonly used, and everyhting a child is taught from Day One. {His} head was waiting on the bench.
He saw the boy in black scratching to get near the man in gold. {He} saw right through the boy, the starving boy. Hungry for an imagination fix, or a compassionate kiss. But nothing was around the boy, and because {his} head had been filled to its T, here sat {his} heart, empty.
Starved.
Blackening.
At Five feet sat a man dressed in gold, still as gold as it was from miles away. His head was not swollen nor bruised, and his heart seemed soft, and ruby. {He} looked to this man, and saw no face, no skin. No marks. Just an upward curvature where his jaw met his cheek. This man, in gold, was dead. Long dead.
{He} just kept walking, until he reached the three. And finally reached an understandment.
Maybe dying is all he`d ever wanted. The two living, striving to be young, ugly. Miserable. And the man in gold, he smiled. He was happy. {He} wanted to be the man in gold. He did not know death, but it looked a lot nicer than living and much more content.
Perhaps, he thought, Death is not that bad.
{He} turned to the woman in white, the bench perhaps, and touched her golden ring.
A request to pull the plug was made, and, {he} crawled silently out of his dream, and into eternal happiness.
