The Cool Breeze Came

The cool breeze came rushing through the window in floods, blowing the posters and newspaper clippings up into the air. Retraction brought them down slowly, as if they were angels descending from space- weightlessly drifting down to earth.

The room thrived just when day descended into late afternoon. Light would dance along the walls, inviting the gray lint to bask within.

He waited for times when his room came alive. It was the only life he cherished.

He knew people, I guess you could label them friends, but his vacant enthusiasm kept distance between them. Social events were a placeholder for his body. All he could hear was silence when he looked about the room at those yapping bodies. How utterly pathetic, he thought. He didn’t try to run away; it would cause too much commotion, let alone, too much effort. As long as he showed up and gave them his presence he could be left in solitude.

He had no cares for the physicality. He thought his body not even worthy of grace.*

What should be valued, he thought, was the mind. His raced, longing for escape.

There lay a typewriter on the carpet in the middle of the room. Sometimes Mozart’s somber Adagio would filter through the window from two floors above, thus igniting a wildfire of thoughts.

He was no writer but a drifter between dreams. He’d go to bed at eight P.M. some nights, others at three, depending if inspiration struck him well enough. The early nights to sleep were escape routes into the dream world when he could no longer handle his idle presence on earth. Dreams fed him stories of magnificent oasis’s far away- intangible worlds that were beauteous and right.

Humans of his generation didn’t understand and never would. To him it was so simple. That is why he slept. His infatuation with the other reality was all he had and why he chose to live.

*Please note the difference between worthy and important. He did not think of solely himself as unworthy, but all bodies unworthy of the magnitude of grace prescribed to them. Their importance, he thought, was to suffice as containers of being.