The open windows, the twilit room, and the soft breeze heard among the trees outside were all the same. Almost four years ago, he lied on the ground with similar music, which also went out of fashion, playing faintly and shaping the formless world of intangibilities inside his cloudy head. Akin sentiment of uncertainty and false relief quenched each stemming image or feeling within his heavy chest. Mindlessly he hummed with the music and tried to conceive the coming hours, days, then months, but all was like a flowing purple haze — a watery reflection that soon changes, diminishes, engulfs, or vanishes altogether. On the threshold of a milestone, for one would suppose it was, and scarcely over an oppressing realization or a disappointing revelation of within, he gathered the strength to hide and reduce the entirety of the world around to this obscure imagery.
Unbeknown to him, had he caught the world unawares, had he plunged into the depths of life, he would have been somewhat found and present and distinct but with a hint of dissatisfaction in his deepest pores of existence, rather than being solidly lost and absent with that undefined sense of contentment. At that moment of tuneful dusk, however, his destination was crystal clear, yet the path was murky.
Now four years later, he lies on the ground very near that ancient spot, gazes outside the window at the nightfall of the far-away skies, smells the scented air with the verve of an imprisoned man, and lets the music take over his consciousness again. He reminisces the days past; despite some illusive detours and his attempts to forsake the within, he finds his feet managed to still be tracking the same murky path heading towards the dreadful. Now on the threshold of another milestone, for one would suppose it is, and scarcely over an oppressing realization or a disappointing revelation of an open life, he gathered the strength to hide and reduce the entirety of the world around to his wonted obscure imagery.