Reaching out to warmth
I am sitting on a small bench, staring at a plain wooden wall. My hands firmly placed beside me. The surface of the bench feels old under my fingers, chipped at the etches and smooth on the upside.
Millions of hands, millions of feet, millions of bodies placed on it and left again.
The wall in front of me seems the same. Old and worn. There was once color on it, but only faded fragments of undefinable color bear witness. The brown is dull and grayish, staring back at me sadly, forgotten. It holds my eyes. Glued to its story.
It is close. If I would reach out, I could touch the wood. But I don't. I only stare. Stare and listen to...
The laughter of children, muffled and far away.
- Where am I? How did I end up here? - My eyes still can't leave the wall. No sound is heard, but the faint memory of voices. Oh so far, far away.
I feel nothing, as if I'm a hollow puppet. Placed here by some unseen mind. - Why is there nothing left in me