Void

He sat on the cold decaying bench waiting for the bus, already late by fifteen minutes.

The day had been repetitive, as always, as he began to think that he may have lost touch with the passion he had once known in his life. The frigid day seemed to act as an impediment to his thought process, the wind clogging his ears and blocking any sensations – things just simply not going through. It was a sad thing too, that his bus was late, because if it were to come on time for once, he would’ve been able to take a nice nap before work; An hour and a half of sleep before waking up and feeling completely meaningless again, this time for money.

This was the problem, and the problem was this, and he came to this conclusion all alone again: it was that meaning was no longer presented to him in life, and though some may have told him that meaning itself was the sole purpose of his own creation in life, he simply no longer found the will. Without meaning, the wind simply flew through the blades of grass and made them dance for the sake of watching them dance – all aesthetic and zero carpe diem. The intent – the implications have been lost. And thus, the meaning has been lost, he would think.

His logic was flawed, he was sure, but he did not mind what others thought of him. He did not mind failing his humanities and science courses. None of it mattered anymore.

Because whether he turned on the TV or not, the end result would be the same, and he could not find beauty in these aesthetics, could not find meaning in the canvas. Rather, he could only see meaning in the process of creating, until now. But if the only reason he did something was in order to not be doing nothing, then was anything he created really worth it? His poetry, painting and music? His art? They no longer supported him with content. And was content ever the point of it to begin with?

So he sat, rather than walk, because the cold air was nothing other than his own perception of cold, which he was slowly numbing himself to, anyway. He learned to live as not a human, but a vessel. And he waited and waited, and the bus still never came, so he sat on the cold decaying bench until the sun would set into its void bed sheets.