Trance

Blank. He slipped into reverie.

After the technicalities were set in stone, the floodgates opened. Thoughts pervaded his consciousness like the individual drops of water that came rushing together to fill the craterous land. What was he going to write? How personal should he get?

Then, he allowed himself to breathe. He ingested as much inspiration as his soul allowed him to stomach. In the morning, he savoured the whiffs of the black coffee that he brewed. Through the afternoon, he watched films that aspire to be the voices of their cultures and generation. He would too, as the day pass by, space in and out of the spiritual world as jazz music played intermittently over the airwaves.

There was however, a caveat: he knew that he could not experience the highs without the lows. So late into the night, he would be wallowing in sorrow, and praying and begging for better tomorrows. At least now I am whole, he thought. Was it, or was it not self-inflicted? He would not know. Because there are questions in life that nobody has the answers to.

But nothing has quite captivated his senses up till the discovery of some walls of words that have been written as it is. There was no pretence. Or at the very least, he felt that everything was honest. What those words were were real, lively, and vivid emotions of another quiet soul.

The crater is now an ocean—or, as he ultimately realizes, a boundless world of his own. He is now ready to traverse and inhabit it. He lets go of the mainsail and his little boat comes to life.