The sun shines, the pond glistens. The sky is as blue as some of the birds sitting on the blossoming trees. People walk on the pavement around me. Each engulfed their own bliss. Everyone is content with who they are and with how their lives run. Some people walk their dogs, completely unaware of the individuals around them.

But I just sit here. All alone on a park bench. Nobody seems to notice me, I’m invisible. So, I just observe. I hear passing conversations, arguments, breakups, engagements. I’ve seen true happiness and joy. I’ve seen heartbreak and sorrow. The park is where I belong. It’s where I’ve always been.
Everyone is ignorant. Nobody has really stopped to think about this life. The world is made up of atoms, they think. Protons, neutrons, electrons. All cycling around in their circle. Each in their own molecule. They’re not wrong. We ourselves are sub-atomic particles. We cycle through our own lives. Running in circles, chasing unattainable things.
So I sit. I’ve sat here for a long time. For as long as I can remember. I sit on the bench, trying to find purpose. I could never find it. I search far and wide for a person wise enough to tell me what I was doing here. No one could tell me. Every creature I met was a savage. They were willing to destroy others to obtain what they wanted.
They shot roaming animals with arrows. They stabbed them with sharp stones. When they were through, they ate the flesh. I asked them, “Why must you do this?” The only response I was able to get was, “This is the way the world works.” I couldn’t help but to wonder, why must the world be like this?
I can remember when they transformed. They built homes, and kept animals within their premises. They were able to collect their products and were able to tame them. They were able to create plants and food from nothing but the dirt and the world around them. “Why do you do this?” I ask. The only response I receive is, “This is the way the word works.” But why must it be like this?
I feel my stomach rumbling. I look at my watch, three o’clock. I haven’t eaten anything all day. I reach into my bag and take out a turkey sandwich.
They then started clumping together. Towns were formed. Social status was put into place. Individuals were raised higher than others. The others were brought down to an even lower level than before. They were left to live on the streets and face other hardships. “Why does this happen?” I ask. I again get the response, “This is the way the world works.” But, why does the world work like this?
The sun was starting to burn brighter. I put on my baseball cap to block it out.
People then became greedy. They wanted the land of others. They transformed into the savages they once were. They ripped each other apart. They were willing to do anything to get more land.  There was bloodshed everywhere you turned. I asked one of these barbarians, “Why are you continuing to do this? Why must you destroy people to get what you want?” They respond, “This is the way the world works.” I still could not comprehend why.
I see people around me start to wonder the same things, Why are we here? But, they do not look at it the same way I do. They begin to tell fantastic stories about how this world was created. I enjoyed these at first. But, then the stories told others how to lead their lives. What were supposedly morals, limited the people. They could no longer be who they are because of fictional stories. I asked far and wide, “Why must you standardize and conform others different to you?” The miniscule answer I receive is, ”This is how the world works.” I still can not understand why the world works like this.
People come and go. They take their boats, they sail across oceans. People face hardships along the way. Disease rides along with these carriers. Fighting breaks out. People die. Sometimes I wonder if more people die along the way than survive. Sometimes entire ships will drown. People become tired of this. After many generations, they began to built large contraptions. They mimicked the birds that they once had shot down. They allowed them to soar high above the earth. People also died on these machines. Large flocks of people would spread from one side of the world to the other. To me, everything was the same. I tried asking others, “Why do you sacrifice so much just to live and sleep on another side of a map?” I manage to scrap out the answer, “This is the way the world works.” But why, I think.
I notice that the sun begins to go down. It gets a bit colder,  I put on my sweatshirt.
Once lush forests, were beginning to turn to metal. Dirt was pulled up from the earth to make room for tall buildings. What once was an open sky was now filled with needless iron bars. More metal and plastic contraptions burned the remains of what had once roamed the earth. They ran on the cement roads put in place of once blooming fields. All of this was hurting the earth. “Why do you take what beauty you were given, destroy it, and turn into something so ugly?”I ask all around. “This is how the world works.” Maybe the world doesn’t have to work like this, I think.
I like my bench. It allows me to see what no other has. People don’t know I’m watching. They see a tired man. A man who is near his final breath. I’ve been at that state for a long time. As soon as I started to sit. I aged. When I looked from the outside at human existence, I aged. When I was skeptical about our purpose, I aged. Since I’ve gained knowledge, I’ve aged.
I notice that my shoe has become untied. I slowly bend over to lace up my sneakers.
I don’t particularly like being old. Being old is hard. I have to live with the burdens of knowing the world around me. I learn the hardships of others. I learn the injustices of the world. I know what the less fortunate have to go through to survive. I know what war, genocide, and hunger looks like. I have to live with it everyday. But, the hardest part isn’t knowing. The hardest part is not knowing. I’ve sat through millenniums, and I still don’t know. I don’t know what we all mean. So, I sit here with the weight of age on my shoulders.
I wish I could turn back the clock. Throw out everything that I’ve seen. I wish I had never sat on the bench. I wish I could be young again. I see the young people around me and I envy them.
I’ve spent all of my life sitting and thinking about what life means, and I’ve never cared to live it. This damned park bench which I thought was going to bring me answers, has been the reason I have none. I can’t expect to understand something that I haven’t experienced.
My eyes begin to sting, salty tears fill the deep wrinkles near my eyes. I’ve never known anything outside of the bench. I’ve never had a family, friends, I’ve never even had a name. I’ve always said, the bench is where I belong. But, if the world doesn’t have to be a set way, why should I? I pull back my languished skin into a smile.
I look at the young people around me. They don’t seem to care why they’re here. They only care about living their lives. They want to learn who they are, and who the people around them are. They just want to live happily. I just want to be happy. And, as long as I’m on the bench, there’s no way I can achieve that. I firmly press my hands into the bench and push into my legs. No moment during the millenniums I’ve been sitting has ever brought me as much joy as standing up.