Steeping Emptyness

He was trudging along the path slowly,being jostled by the multitudes of uneven humanity brushing past him.Cursing his lethargy.He looked around to see scowling faces around him.scowling at him, pushing at him, clearly blaming their problems on him.As if he was the cause of their misery, whatever that was.He could not bear it, so he looked up to the sky.But what he saw was a smudged old piece of rag masquerading as the heavens.Even the gods were displeased.
It was raining.His new suit was sodden and clung to him.His shoes complained with every step.His shoulder felt infinitely burdened and he seemed to shrink under the stern gaze of fate.With the rain,it felt like it was his sorrows raining down on him all over again.It washed him clean of hope and left him craving for the comfort and warmth he had always found at home.At the end of a killing night, a roof, a hearth, a quiet corner to wipe your tears in, and mother.

He had a Home.He had just left it in order to attend to his mindless wanderings.Well, not entirely mindless.Because he also had one purpose.He lived now to fulfill that.to achieve that solitude he had craved so badly recently.To be alone.Once and for all.Alone with himself and at peace with the world.Or so he thought.
Purpose gives light to some people.It guides them not, but it gives them determination.It transcends hope and faith.Purpose is the ancient part of our existence that is more basic than humanity.Purpose outranks destiny.Indeed, purpose moulds and creates our individual destiny.The purpose of our existence and eventual death seems to hold some purpose in the greater scheme of things.It is pleasurable to think so.For him though, purpose was life.Distilled and unadulterated.And he walked on...purposeful, but as yet unaware of the fact.

It was raining.The smells of a sinful, revulsive city rose up to mock him.He met them with equanimity.He was no more than a shell now.It could be rain running down his cheeks,because his tears had run dry.He had nothing left in him to pluck out and wager for his life.He did not know what he was doing.He no longer cared.And so it was that when he climbed the rails and jumped, he did not know that the bridge had made the final decision for him.
As the slush rose up to met him, he was not thinking of his purpose, of the resulting destiny or of his ailing mother at home.His last expression was that of a mask straining against itself to achieve an etching of a smile.A crooked wretched look that oddly enough suited him.He was thinking how the colour of his suit matched the colour of his coffin.

It was raining.And he was falling with it.