Detached

It was early August and the weather was mildly warm. To him it was ice cold. He could feel the sun on his back, but its warmth didn't reach him. His bright neighorborhood painted in its usual cheerful hues didn't affect him. Everything felt chilled, and absent of any warmth. He sat there on the bench at the bus stop where he had collasped, feeling seperated from the world around him. Across the road there was a wide, grassy park. In the park another father played with his young son. Both smiled brightly. He chenched his fists and jaw, biting back hot tears. He wanted to scream and yell at the injustice of it all. How could the world remain so bright and happy when he was trapped in a gray sorrow? He felt numb. His legs had no strength. He couldn't move if he wanted to. His closed eyes scrunched together as he fought circulating waves of anguish and anger that were quickly consuming him.