A Lone Broken Bench

In an abandoned railway station stands a lone broken bench, unseen and unadmired except by the green moss creeping over its worn surface.

In the early hours of a hazy, fog-covered day, a mid-aged person, running from himself, comes and sits. The fog veils the sadness of his life, hinting at something yet to be revealed. He is a spiritual person, lost in his own thoughts.

Another arrives, clad in a suit, a former success cloaked in a facade of fake smiles exchanged for business deals. His laughter at trivial jokes was a currency in the marketplace of empty pleasantries. He is a rat in the endless race, chasing illusions.

A third person appears, bent under the weight of his worldly responsibilities. He has dedicated his life to raising his children, educating them in a society that sells information but not wisdom. He is a doting father, bearing the burdens of samsara.

Next, a heartbroken lover takes his place on the bench. The pain of being loved less than he loved is etched deeply on his face. Despite giving his all, he remains unfulfilled. He is a mad lover, consumed by unrequited affection.

Then, a person arrives who was once an energetic child, filled with wonder at life's smallest details. He lived with innocent curiosity, a spark of joy in his eyes. He is his own childhood, now a distant memory.
Gradually, more versions of himself come and sit. Each bears the scars of life's trials and the fleeting moments of happiness. Some are frightened, others overconfident, each a fragment of his multifaceted existence.

They all merge into him, the weight of their collective being too much for the broken bench. It groans under the pressure and eventually gives way. He falls on the ground, except the ground isn't there. He is floating, suspended in a realm beyond the physical, where his myriad selves coalesce into a singular existence.