Blessed are The Dead; Prose

Broken and defeated they held him, sufficiently hopeless, as if to render him so utterly and completely barren and withered that no hope could grow. So as to trap him within a shell of himself. 

He had been here before, but not so often as to invite upon himself the comfort of familiarity; the only comfort the place held for him was contempt, the contempt bred from an age of waiting. Waiting to find the very comfort that eluded him.

He turned it over, not forgetting to say a prayer for those who might guide him from this infinite infinity of... Well of what he could not say. The endless avenue of dark that held, for him, the faces of not only those who would take his hand and lead him to the light, but the faces of those who would see him wander forever. The faces that he could only describe with the sensation that accompanied them; a sensation of disgust and loathing that swallowed him whole.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn't so much the avenue that held the faces, but the faces that constructed the avenue. The endless, hopeless cold and dark was what lay at the end of the road, not the road itself. The road itself he had traveled a long time ago. The beginning of the end of his hope in humanity. 

He found a bench, cold, hard and yet still inviting. He sat a while in thought. It began to rain. And in that rain he found the awakening he longed for. That, was that. No longer did he long for anything. Life, if one could call it that, held nothing for him. Not anymore.

No life. No death. Only the rain.