The world. World, how could those five words cover so much ground? For I've lived, for I've died, but in the end, an eery, dark cloak shall cover our consciousness, ensuring that what once living has lost the one precious thing that distinguished it from the many other heaps of molecules.

It turned, a yellow substance exiting my mouth, ensuring that I fell back, but I feel a firm hand behind me. I snort, I breath, I try to at the least. Yet every attempt is deemed not enough, for I feel my eyes searching for something it knows, but my brain deactivating, as the sense of "what could" was replaced with "was". Searching in my pockets, I slowly took my phone, wiggling left and right, trying to disappear, as shame filled my heart ever more. "Come get me, please.", I texted. I saw a car arriving, and I walked toward, as a duck foot by foot, trying to find its balance. Greeting the man, I opened the door, and I sat myself. A darkness as I had never known unfolded, leaving only some memories behind, the memories of stumbling forward, vomiting hither and thither, the impossibility of breathing and the wish, the dear wish that it could be over as soon as possible, either definite or temporary.

The next morning, it was about the hour when nothing good ever happens, just at that moment I woke up, unable to move and a heavy weight crushing my breath ever once in while. I tried to roll over, but nauseau attacked, and ensured that I could only close my eyes, to be once more on my own, in the darkness, soaked in my own grief, with only the faint remembrance of what led to this.

The morning sun fell upon the now flowering blossoms of the several oaks, all spread across a beautiful pond. He was reading the papers, listing all the news on one page, hoping to find inspiration for his book. Yes, he had grown old, for the blossoms weren’t new, the wind found an old friend in him and the water saw him as woe, analyzing the wrinkles formed across his face, for it expected little pieces of bread, which were thrown into it as if it were rocks. Several ducks would swim around it, picking with their beaks, attempting to snatch the piece before the others would.

He enjoyed this sight but had forgotten a piece of bread. The drakes were watching him with their green eyes, submerging their beak softly into their feather, but still aware of the stranger’s gaze. He closed the papers, folded it and laid it on the wooden bench. It was dark oak, if a pensioned timber was to be believed, attached with several nails to a white metal, seeing it from a distance it’d be as Victorian as Charles Dickens himself. Of course, these days, placing this seat in a park in New York made it seem out of place. This group, all benches being placed a few feet from each other, seemed quite modern, apart from this one.

It was the odd one out, the black chicken amongst the white, a sapling amongst its superiors. One could only reckon what the sea of time, crushing its wild, salty, and old waves against the shores of every mortal man or woman, would do with this one. He touched the cold iron, the sadness and sorrow of time touching his bare finger, softly peeling its skin further and further off, revealing white bones. He immediately released the steel from its burden, yet his finger staid pure bone.

Twisting his hand, he gazed at it, almost afraid to say anything. “How’s this possible?”, he murmured, not hearable for his voice had been silenced by the soft splash of water, created by the fowl submerging themselves with the dark abyss, which the water ultimately was.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, a man wearing dark robes appeared in front of him and was holding his scythe in his bare bony hands. “Come, for I’ll lead you through the portal, dividing this world with many others.” Death offered its hands, but the man wanted to stay. His consciousness reaching out to the pure nerves in his hands, trying to convince them for the sake of his life, yet they wouldn’t listen. The hand stretched out, accepting both hands and the man stood up. Aware that he’d abandoned his dead corpse, he was shocked, and fear crept into his veins, freezing the flowing blood.

The once so bright sun, touching the long dead skin softly, was covered by a large blanket, imprisoning the earth in a dark shadow, announcing the final judgment, the riders of Apocalypse smoothening the road for Satan, if the Bible was to be believed. Never, he had been afraid, yet so comforted. Never, he looked at the sunset, and thought that following a skeleton would be safe. “Never has become ever, impossible possible, for the final judgment has been announced. Soon, comfort shall be discomfort and change vice versa until the end of time, how long that may be. Forever shall be soon, the future shall be the past and the present shall be killed, for time is abandoned. Death shall be birth, and birth shall be death. The latter brings sorrow, the other relief. Praise yourself, you’ve been chosen. Feel relieved, for paradise awaits thee.”

To die, or not to die, that’s the question; whether it’s nobler to suffer the burdens of life, then opposing them and by doing so, end them. He had read a lot of Shakespeare, giving him enough inspiration to soliloquy for the next hour. Yet, he fell that it’d be done tomorrow, tomorrow, when he takes a nap, perchance he will dream. He found a little paper in his pocket, reading the curly letters written upon it. It was a shop list, all the necessary food. Apples, he hadn’t eaten that, yet it was his favorite food. Why, o why, did he need to die right now? When shall he taste the sweet flavor of it, his preferred dishes would probably never be fed to him again? Well, he appreciated the 70 years of acting out his ego, for he knew that he had been a burden for everyone around him, reassuring his friendship to everyone he held dear, yet he still would miss them after this. Death calls it paradise, a better one would be a paradise lost, lost in the sorrow and sadness of everyone that knew those that disappeared. If this was heaven, how bad would hell be? It’d be a mix of intense emotions, combined and mixed as if a smoothie, until one couldn’t bear it anymore. The fires that priests warned about weren’t yellow nor burning, they were the emotions, burning down your philosophy, making you realize that there isn’t anything apart from this life.

The ground was leaving his feet, the little ducks still in the water, enjoying their lives and playing with the water. Oh, what he shall miss life, for he felt homesick, even though he hadn’t left yet. He looked at the sky, ready for the next stage. He flew, higher the height the faster his velocity. The robe didn’t look at him, ignoring his pondering, for he was convinced the man had psychic abilities.

The darkness grew, eating the ducks with feather and all, even the beautiful skyscrapers that kissed the sky, hugging the clouds. They flew higher and higher, the man closed his eyes, accepting his death. It didn’t hurt, at least that prohibited him from having any regret about what he had done.

Now, the sleep will begin that will last forever, yet not for a moment, the sleep that will end in the future, yet has already ended, this long night, created by the soft yet hard realization of sleep, shall announce itself with the first bright light of a full moon, carried away by the dreams and wishes of certain playwrights, and the last light of the moon, despised by all but one, loved by all but one; all the contradictions spined around and around, yet it didn’t cause chaos, for the harmony caused discord yet again, the often fantasized globes that contradictions are, stood still, it’s main point of existence, which was only there to let the spheres turn around itself, disappeared in the chaos and harmony of light and dark, fighting an everlasting battle; the man was certain of the chaos, hoping for restoration by some divinity, with absolute power of everything that was and will be, but knew that it wouldn’t come, yet the impossible was possible and the chaos was harmony, the man existing out of bones had said that, it all became so confusing to him, everything that once was, is and shall be, increasing and decreasing before his own eyes, but it didn’t attack nor oppose him, it didn’t fill his mind with articulated and fake joy or eagerly awaiting anger, the seeds already present deep inside his heart and mind; he knew that it didn’t make any sense, so he waited for the end, or the beginning, if you want it your way.

What happened, didn’t happen, existent matter became inexistent, and darkness became enlightened and vice versa. Welcome, he was, yet he wasn’t, his conscious slipped away, yet it didn’t, what once a contradiction was, ironically was contradicted itself.

The day was dying and John slowly opened his door, hearing the hinges scream for a glass of oil. He threw the keys in a purple bowl, and sighed loudly. His hands removed the sweat from his head, avoiding the mixing of it with his fresh blood. He entered his favorite room, the room where the soft buzzing of the refrigerator can be heard, the room where his belly won't suffer the pain of less, only the pleasure of more. He couldn't wait until the door opened, the light shone on his face, and all the products awaited his sweaty hands.

But before this would happen, he opened the cupboard and took the roll of bandages out. He put a little bit of disinfecting ointment, and made sure the bandages were tight enough.

An hour ago, it had happened. An hour ago, he was walking in the streets, as relaxed as a scared man could be. Something was wrong, he sensed it. A dark cloud was hiding the sun, almost making it night before dusk. A girl walked past him, a pretty girl that made him feel as if reality slipped between his fingers. It's all relative of course, but for a few seconds, it really felt as if the strings of this universe were loosening up, as if a universal pause had occured. Her brown eyes looked at him, and his tongue didn't move, only his breath was heard. Speech has always been hard.

The girl moved past the block, and he felt a hard push on his back. Almost tripping, he turned around. A man with a leather jacket was holding a bayonet in front of him. He nodded toward a small street, and pushed him toward it. Nothing would save him, he knew that for sure.

He held his hands above his head, and stuttered a few words. "Why... who?" "Shut up, you asshole.", he said in a loud voice. John tried to find words, but the man grew tired. His grey eyebrows moved closer toward his green eyes, and he focused himself on his prey. A big fist landed on the head of John, making him fall back. The man put his knee on the prey's neck, took his wallet. "Interesting,", he looked at the ID, "John. See, I really don't like guys who don't have cash with them." A psychopathic smile formed on the man's face. He placed his greying hair in the right direction, and pointed the bayonet between the eyes of his victim. "You're going to pay for wasting my time." Slowly, but steady, John felt an outburst of pain and blood streaming down into his eyes. The man relieved the pain, let him stand up. "See, so painful wasn't it, right?" John's nerves were ready to explode, and the hunter only smiled. "Get yourself some weed, it might relax you." He turned around, and left John, never to return.

Seeing after his wounds, he granted himself the gift of alcohol, with its soothing effect for the pain of his head. Slowly stumbling toward his bed, he drunk it. His pain disappeared as ounces of snow who meet the sunlight for the first time. Slowly the eyes closed and darkness embraced the hurt man.

Jonathan opened the door of his garage, and looked at the wallet of John. Why the fuck would a nerd like him have no money? Maybe he shouldn't be bothered by it, and just let it rest. He closed the door slowly, sat himself on the chair and drunk the last bit of the beer standing on the table before him. He leaned backwards, his eyes were covered by the lids and the worries ran faster out of his mind than water in the Congo river.

A weird feeling interrupted the silence. A feeling of eyes watching him, a feeling of not being alone. He quickly opened his eyes, looked around, but saw nothing. To be sure, he took his gun that hung under the table. The bullets placed themselves in the cylinder, the hammer was pulled over and he stood up.

Slowly, he walked toward the lever. The lights went out in the garage, and only the moon had her reflections on the floor. "If you're here, show me your fucking face!", he yelled. His voice echoed a bit.

John saw a man with a gun. The man was yelling in a garage, but reasons were unknown to him. He felt a cold breath in his neck, turned around and saw a man standing behind him. He jumped, fearful of what the man would do. The man clearly didn't see him, for no reaction came from him. Almost immediately, he understood what was happening. The man held a bayonet in his hand, and wanted to kill the other one.

What he could do, he didn't know. He looked in the fearless eyes of a psychopath, of a future murderer. The man, the victim, the prey, was familiar to John. He wore a leather jacket, and the greying hair was almost silver with the full moon. The man who cut him open, the man who delivered him more pain than possible, that man was about to be murdered, to be put six feet underground without anyone noticing. Immediately, John tried to do something, he waved his hand in front of the psychopath, trying to hold his attention. Nothing seemed to work, nothing made him look at John. The man advanced, walked "through" him. "Through" sounds about right, because the soon to be criminal crept in him, only to stand there as if John were a ghost without body mass. The scene continued, and John had to find something.

Suddenly, he saw a rope. It hung from the ceiling, almost looking like one of the lianas that his childhood hero used to swing from one tree to another. If I can use that rope to slinger a heavy object, I might take him out. This thought raced through his mind and he obeyed directly. A heavy object, what could be a heavy object? He searched through a few newspaper that laid scattered on the floor. "Bingo.", he whispered when he found a filled jar of dirt. Slowly, but steady it was moved by him and he made sure it hung on the rope. "Three...", the jar was lifted, "Two...", he held the jar with both hands, finger tops almost reaching each other, and pulled it toward his ear, "One!" The jar swung out of his hands.

The jar hit the person full in the face, making him fall backwards against the walls of the garage. "Yes", John thought and he stepped forward, trying to see the full scene he had created. He almost got a heart attack when he realized whom he saved. He looked at the man, the robber, the one who cut him. A realisation dawned upon him. Saving the life of a man, whom wouldn't have spared him. A smile formed on his face. "They can't see me", he yelled at the criminal. The man didn't react, and John's smile grew more and more. "They can't see nor hear me.", he stepped toward the invader, looking for his bayonet. "Now, I'll make him smile forever..."

Jonathan saw the body drop, jumped, and looked at it. Few bloodstrains came out of the wound, dirt was infecting the wound and several ants were already nestling themselves in the corpse. The darkness felt heavy, as if he were responsible for the man's death. He wasn't, for God's sake. He knew it bloody well. He tried to focus his thoughts on what to do next. He looked at the table, saw the little sacks filled with weed. "Might be good to relax ol' Jonathan.", he said in a soft voice. But still, the watching eyes were still there. He saw that the lights still weren't on, so he decided to pull the lever. Hearing the lights go on, he relaxed. It's over, was the first thought that filled his mind.

Suddenly, he saw the bayonet. But something was off, it was flying. Rubbing his eyes, reality didn't change a bit. "What the fuck?" Speechless, he stared at the moving knife, seeing it move toward, toward him. "Oh shit", he yelled out loud, while avoiding the knife. It missed his ear, but still his skin was gone nonetheless. Reacting as fast as he could, he took the chair, trying to use it as a shield.

"Don't defend yourself!", he took hold of the chair, and threw it against the wall. Death was visible in the eyes of the man. Seeing death, the thing that awaits everyone but has a taboo as large as ever, was a threatening sight. John stepped forward, saw Jonathan tripping and holding his hand in front of the knife. A tear formed under the dead man's left eye. The eternal darkness would soon fall upon his shoulders, being heavier than anything prior. Six feet under ground is what most say, but at the sight of this dying man, it could be sixty nine feet as well. What was he doing, in this blind rage? What was he thinking, holding this weapon? Why was he acting as evil as this man, who had humiliated many but befriended none? The ethical questions formed in his head, and were held hostage by his conscience. Why on earth would he save this man's life, why on earth would he take it? The contradictions would sound more and more as synonyms rather than antonyms, and he realized that he, a man, a creature created by nature, had no right to end or destroy life. Ending life would a betrayal to nature, a formed hole that could and would never heal.

He dropped the knife, heard the sharp sound of metal falling on concrete, and ran out of the garage. The night was old, the moon was already grieving her friend, the stars where gone, with only the polar star twinkling and enlighting his way. Somehow he knew he'd made the right choice, but moral axioma's such as these would only be proven over time. Time could heal, destroy and was seen as an ancient version of what we would call today a shrink.

He softly closed his eyes, felt a force pulling him back to the ground, and didn't consider to work against it. The soft matress of his bed met his back, and everything felt all right. As far as he knew, nothing had changed, but as we all know, saving one life, could lead to many, many different possibilities, who bore the burden to never be explored by a humble author.