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He opens the door, says hello, and falls onto his bed as the last remnants of the sun disappear from the sky. He falls asleep, and dreams of the most beautiful paradox.
A field of green like a rich ember of hope stretches out to the line of trees standing guard over the field, the sole survivors (thinned out); the last vestige of the forest offers a glimmer of the refuge it used to be. He places one foot in front of the other in a calculated bid to reach the trees, to reach the last, final refuge. Each footstep is an echo of the turmoil within, a lens into the battle that rages in his soul and in his mind. He and his soul are torn, love and hate, everything and nothing; the battle goes on.
Energy like a currency, the whole battle rages, footsteps echo in the hole within. The energy drains, his heart aches; blackness surrounds and bleeds him dry. Feeling lost and confused, the darkness pulls at his arms, torments his legs, fills his head like a poison. As the darkness gains strength, the disorientation furthers to the point of utter confusion; movement with the absence of movement; swirling, still, standing, sitting all at the same time, each motion a desperate attempt for reason, for sanity in the world of nothing that fills his heart and body with dread, with fear, with nothing. He tries, desperately, for a foothold, a rock, something sane and stable; the darkness twirls him about like a piece of grass in a tornado tearing through sturdy houses, built on foundations of concrete; order is destroyed while this one tiny blade of grass is thrown about, abused, and then thrown to the sky.
The black is so real, so tangible, and yet so elusive that when he tries to think, to comprehend, his mind is lost in the whirlwind of activity, the commotion that is nothing. The most beautiful paradox.
With stars and the moon shining bright overhead, he continues his trek to the truth, he wills himself across the expanse, the only thread left. He momentarily stops to look up at the sky, strewn with so many stars, so many little specks of light from the past, each one a symbol of hope, a symbol of defiance against the black that is night. The moon outshines all of the stars though, spreading its rays to the land, over the fear, love and sand; the world grows, leaving itself behind, a distant memory for comparison.
After several steps he looks back to the sky, his newfound source of hope and courage, and lets his vision drop out of focus; the stars slip past their borders, gaining in size the stars take over the sky, in strength do they spread their light to all parts of the sky, so bright it blinds him; the night that turned into day.
He wakes up, realizing that he is staring at the sun, he lowers his eyes and lets the scene slowly develop, like a Polaroid picture the trees come into view, outlined by the majestic blue sky, white paint strokes of clouds hang lazily in their field of dreams. The grass is almost golden as the sun’s rays strike from their perch high in the heavens.
Without so much of a thought, he walks to the trees and enters his silent refuge that he will never awake from; he already is awake, and always will be.