It was cold, there was no sun in the sky, just clouds & the wind was blowing from nowhere to nowhere as if it had nothing else to do. Winter was at its peak &adding to its severity were the rare winter showers, which drenched the earth every time it showed some dryness. The sky was getting darker as the clouds turned gray & with the sky every tint of the atmosphere grew darker… darker in such a way that it pleased the spectator’s eyes. There was not a single soul outside except the soul of nature which seemed to have scared away all other visible-flesh-bound souls.

Covered in a dirty black shirt, a torn pair of light brown trousers & a cap which failed to cover the earlobes, he lay awkwardly, with one hand under his head & the other between his bent legs to keep it warm, on the cement bench of a park. Due to some unknown reason he, despite of his worn out appearance, seemed in accordance with the nature. His cheek bones & nose were covered with dirt & dust while the other parts of his face were covered with hair, beard or mustache which was dense & dirty. His condition was like million others but because of some unknown reason seemed a little more tragic & when it started raining he, as if preplanned, got under the bench in the same posture. He was not drunk, hurt or ill to go away from there, but it seemed that he had simply nowhere else to turn to.

In our world where animals are thrown out of their homes, he seemed to be the only human subjected to such treatment. Lying there he seemed totally mixed with the surroundings as if it was all planned that way, the cold, the rain, the wind, the bench & he under it.

By now the rain has stopped, but now a foreboding wet wintry night along with its blinding darkness has prevailed over everything. He is still there, still, his face wet, wet due to rain or tears, tears of joy or sorrow, of shame or pain, no one knows…maybe he will know someday…

After three days of storm & rain, during which everything was closed, the park employees cleared his body from under the cement bench. They said he was dead when they found him, lying under the bench, with one hand under his head & the other between his legs, it looked as if a picture…as if it had all existed there always.

Before falling asleep

The sound of the fan rotating above, by now, has dissolved in the noise of his head. The light of the table lamp is the same as the darkness outside, while the radio which stopped playing some ten minutes back is still playing or rather never played in his head. He is thinking deeply. Fighting with some idea in his head or maybe…trying to find one to fight with. Its a tough time, time when one desperately wants to create something, but what…one does`t know. It just lasts for a few hours or rather not more than half an hour, but even this short time seems like centuries, only condition which coagulates time(apart from one of waiting in anticipation).He is perfectly calm but yet so agitated. “Make something…what? Draw something…how? Do something, there is so much to do. But what to do from that “so much” he thought. He could have done many things, even he knew that, but still he could not do anything, weather it was due to the cold or abundance of choices, he did not know. His heart sank and a feeling of defeat came over him. A defeat. Simple defeat. He excepted it so easily. A defeat which you can`t fight back, because it`s a defeat without any aspect of victory in it. Suddenly he started thinking of something else, something more meaningless, about the causes of his defeat. Excepted defeat. He blamed everyone, including himself. He felt alone. He blamed it all on his imagined disability. He cried, blamed, cursed and then as if satisfied by this, he slept. He slept. Thinking nothing, with a table lamp still switched on, giving out every ounce of his energy just to help him give shape to something perfect…perfect in every sense, the fan above still rotated, making some sound, as if gone mad by the thought of seeing something…perfect, radio still stopped or rather waiting to know that he has created something…something perfect and his potentials were still waiting for him to take a step…an initiation leaving behind and muting the useless noises in his head. For all of them time has coagulated. Coagulated because of waiting, waiting from anticipation. A creation of which they all were a part. Waiting for him to wake up, to take a step without thinking or even trying to think, without excepting a defeat. They will wait, always wait, for they know that he is the only one to create what is inside him and no one else. They will always wait and maybe one day make him feel that he is not alone and there is a victory waiting for him.