Part I – The Land

This morning I swatted a fly with a straight-handed slap across my face as I woke up.
I noticed there was dry spittle on the corners of my mouth, and the bed sheets stuck to me like old mildewed honey—wanting to carry on what was the night before and so on.
That sweet morning sleep. That space between dreams. The land between God’s mountains and river streams, beneath blue velvet skies and the sweet summer sun.I felt like gliding on dusty, dog-eared brown leaves across river surfaces to the land of places yet unseen to my—and everyone’s—mind.
Oh, what dreams.

And then that slap across my face.

I lay there for a short while.
I couldn’t think of any reason to wake up.
This morning, or that morning, or any really.
It felt like an immobilising force. One that has your eyes struck wild—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—staring at the ceiling wondering: What if?

What if I hadn’t told my boss he was a capitalist asshole?
What if I told my Mama I was sorry I let her down?
Or what if I had loved a little closer?

All of these what ifs now rang like a symphony, painting the walls into a quasi-Rothko palette.
And outside, the purr of a gentle cooling breeze—only suitable to those early risers—waved its way on by.

I always said that the ones who watch the sunrise never get to see what happens after it sets.

My forehead scrunched, and my arrows narrowed.
Why was I awake so early?
And then the remembrance of the uninvited guest struck me like my morning hand.

The Fly.

I woke to the thunder of its wings rattling against each other. Flapping pointlessly through my room.
I looked across the room. Across this vast and vacuous box-shaped space.

There was a small kitchenette in the corner, with cups of coffee and plates full of crumbs from—well, from I don’t truly know when.
I rented this box from a sweet old dime who lived upstairs.

Oh, she was friendly—like a rare bird that flies past your window sometimes and catches you off guard, so you just watch in awe wondering if it was real.

This rare bird was called Maple.
A lady who once turned her fair share of heads as she walked by, now living in her twinkling silver years.
She carried an unspoken weight around her—the kind where you can see, behind every laugh and every smile, a slight bit of pain emanating through.

I came to learn, by another fella, a neighbour who talked far too much and routinely gets his walls knocked on to hush his tones in the late evenings, that she was carrying the burden of her husband’s passing decades ago.
She never talked about it.
And that made me feel sad.

She never got to say goodbye.
One minute her cotton blouse still had the imprint of his arms as he wrapped himself around her, the air still scented with his presence.
And next, life ends up unfolding into a different vision of the future for Maple.

Now it’s just the walls that remind her that he was ever there in the first place.
That he truly was the only head Maple ever wanted turning toward her.

Every now and again we would bump into each other in the hallway, returning after a long day of doing not much.
I had the suspicion she would wait for me to come home sometimes—her blue eyes peering out of her door patiently, just so she could have somebody other than the walls to talk to.
And I didn’t mind.
No, I don’t mind at all.

She would excitedly tell me about the occasional love interests of her life, nosy neighbours, and who said what about each other.
Tales told each time with a devilish, cheeky wink and a smile that would melt you if you let her.

She’d tell stories of flirtatiously playing with men half her age, and the absolute thrill and elation of it all.

I think Maple was living in a time gone by.
Living in all of our old movies and all our favourite fantasy books.

“Oh I refuse to grow old!” she would say, as if the truth of it was that growing old were a bad thing in the first place.

It must be hard though—letting go of the reasons why people smile at you on the street.
The reasons they would have opened their door to her.

And I would talk to her like that.
In the nights between sleep and all of this.
She reminded me of my grandmother—perhaps all of ours. Matriarchs of a time gone by.
They must have a place in our hearts, somewhere. Maybe even without knowing so.
Soft smiles that make you feel you are right where you are supposed to be.

By now, I had noticed the window was fully open, letting heat-soaked particles float in from the day outside.
And as I squinted my eyes, I saw that the wire netting had a small, tiny fly-sized hole in it.

That must have been how that bastard—now lifeless on the ground—made its way in.

How peculiar.
Something so small.
And yet here I was, thinking about it.
Thinking about it all.

So I continued laying there, staring out of the window. Watching shapes and silhouettes coming and going.
From one side over to the other.
As they made their way across, they seemed to me like a blur.
Moving almost without aim. Not yet formed, and somehow de-saturated to the world they crossed.
They carried a feeling of waiting to be seen—or even to be complete. As a kid—my hair in the air, the smell of summer grass, and the Sun.
Oh, the Sun was always hot back then.
I remember feeling completely incomplete. Waiting to fill my shoes and find out who I was to become. I’d run past nursing homes and hospitals and I’d watch old people and hospital folk staring idly out from what, to my young mind’s eye, looked like prison cells.
I remember thinking that I would never be like them.
I would never let myself go to the point of non-existence.

How lucky I felt—to have this privilege to watch for however long I wanted and then be able to walk away from it.
I would feel confused that they too didn’t want to feel the Sun pushing against their backs.
Confused why they didn’t want to get up and explore the world, continue filling themselves in.

I wondered about them all.
If they were still here today, or gone now to someplace unexplained—whispering to us from the dust beneath our feet. I used to sit in the park by myself and imagine what it would be like to not exist—and just how terrifying that must be.
Infinite nothingness!
Forever and nowhere at the same time.

I remember how tense my body would get thinking about that.
Images of it would cloud my mind, akin to the singularity inside a black hole—a place where gravity bends time and nothing leaves after entering its horizon.

Maybe that’s what it feels like?
Just this immense pressure pushing you ever further into yourself.

Truth be told, I think we all still feel that same fear.
But we’ve all learned to hide it very well—some better than others.

Other days, I would dance around as if no one were watching.
Without a single care in the world—playing games with imaginary warlocks on the side of mountains or protecting my precious little cat I called Blue (after her blue-coloured eyes) from these evil Ork bastards with a sharp copper metal tube I had found lying around that day.

And today, I felt like I wanted to remain lifeless.
Like the Fly on the floor.

But the window.
This Fly.
I felt this need to do something.

So I slid my feet across the bed sheets, and with a thump they landed onto the warped floor.

I recently figured a system by which one shower a week keeps me presentable enough to the world—and keeps the bills from running me out of here.
Life is simpler that way.
Unimportant things like hygiene become less of a thing.

Ritualistic 4am snacks and late evenings filled with endlessness.
No one there to judge or look down on you.

There are obvious drawbacks, of course.
But when you live alone, by yourself, like I do—you can choose your own schedule.
You choose when you sleep and when you eat.

When you are alone, it’s as if the world forgets you exist.
It’s like a gift from the invisible.

You notice things.
Things like the beggars counting coins on dirty floors.
Old men sitting in wooden chairs in cafés on quiet streets, drinking tea and reading the latest in the papers.

Or the sea of the great forgotten, in bars drinking liquor and inhaling cigarette smoke—screamin’ at the end of the bar for one more on credit.

These are—whether we like it or not—the mountains and pillars that make up our societies.
They are the bricks that we build and stack upon for our culture to exist.

And as days pass, it’s hard not to feel their pull.

It’s just you.
Floating in the thick of it—like dark thickening cement—looking down on the world with blank, expressionless musings.
Taking it all in.

Watching arguments on packed streets.
You see hustlers erratically tucking sandwiches under their jackets in the store as they only pay for a pack of gum.
You watch women with glancing, wondering eyes for other men.
More men, with more and more.

And you watch their men’s faces pulled downward with deep-lined frowns, wishing they could be just that little more.
If only a little taller.
If only a little more…

In these moments, it feels as if you’re the only one that can see this circus of the absurd.
It’s like you are centre stage, listening to the symphony of the damned in the greatest show the world has ever seen—our universe.

You see all the little things the world keeps buried away, evading the upward gaze of those who are happy.
All the shame and all the pity. The heartbreak.
And sometimes, you see true Love escaping from the clutches of the young—emotionally unaware of what they are even losing in the first place.

Of what it means to be here now.
Experiencing all of this.

What a gift presence can be.
Breathing it every day.
Feeling and seeing.

If only they could see this sweet simplicity.
How we’re only here to do one thing.

It sounds simple really.

To hold each other until we reach home.
To say: “It’s ok, I understand. I see you, and you see me.”

That’s it, really.

So I placed one foot in front of the other, ignoring that bastard as I stepped over its limp body and finally closed the window.
I inspected its entrance, striking my finger through this mystery hole, tilting my head and getting closer and closer to the subject of my curiosity.

But all this foolin’ made it bigger, as I prodded away clumsily.

All of a sudden, a surge of energy rang through the floor and upward through my legs.
A jolt of joy as my eyes widened and I saw myself—a detective attempting to figure out what ghastly crime had been committed during my slumber.

I could play.
Yes! This could be fun!

I’d imagine myself wearing a monocle. And for no good reason, I would be carrying a black leather briefcase embroidered with a swirl floral pattern on its side.
In my hand, an umbrella made of mahogany wood, with a shiny silver metal prick on the end—in case of rain.

In case of rain!
I couldn’t remember the last time it had rained here.

My nose was now pressed up against the wire; now frail from the detective work.
All four edges limply attempting to hold on to the wooden-framed window.

The hole was twice the size it was moments ago.

And then the jolt left.
My shoulders tightened again, seeing the mess I had made.

My mind finally turned on me—as it does in moments of play.
In moments where I finally let go and stop thinking.

My mind watching me from far.
Shaped like a suited figure with slit narrow eyes, unusually tall, and pity in its glare.

I realised—there I was.
A grown man in make-believe land.
Thinking I could be something I’m not.
I’m only making things worse.

So I let out a sigh.
What else was there?

I placed my hand back down by my side and sat with a thump on the edge of the bed.
I looked around my room, and then—again, like clockwork—out of the window.

I live in a quiet, sleepy neighbourhood. Tucked away from the glamour the town has to offer.
I wanted for nothing more than to bite into it.
To savour it.
To feel one with it.

I had moved here just over ten years ago, in hopes to fulfil some part of my hunger for belonging.

But as my heritage before me knows—and now, perhaps, in front of me will endure—
One makes do with what proximity money can get you.

If you can’t buy a bed, you build one from scrap wood you find lying around the neighbourhood.
If a man in a suit looks you up and down and tells you you’re not dressed the part to be welcomed here—well, you find an eatery that doesn’t have a man in a suit.

“You’d be lucky to find yourself in our restaurant, sir.”

Quite right, I’d think sometimes.
Why would anyone want to be near me, when I looked the way I looked sometimes?

As I looked beyond the neighbourhood, I could see the lights just above the horizon—
Cascading up and over the mountain in the distance and into the sky.
Splashing its orange hue like a waterfall spraying a dreamy mist out and into my window.

I thought my luck might change.
But this city has different plans for those who come with a will to dominate.
To leave their imprint—as a hand perhaps, or star-shaped stone that people step over.

A beggar told me once that Lady Angel has the upper hand.
And that she can break a man in half if he lets her.

And when a man is at half capacity, there may as well be nothing left of him.
They say a mark has been left upon him.
Open for the world to see, peer, and judge.

I wondered then if I was marked.

All I wanted was someone with a little faith.
And a little patience.
I wanted someone to peer in less and maybe see me not for what they see on the outside—a body, a shape with imperfections—
But more for how I would make them feel when around me.

But of course, in a city full of strangers, topped up by a reverent desire for aesthetics—
Such niceties are complex and hard to come by.

As I sat there, my stomach began its rumble.
I couldn’t remember the last time I ate.
The last time I had left this dreaded apartment.

When the mind is flat, it becomes base.
Returning to the soil.
Drying and waiting for the next rain to come.

When cracked, it settles for the rudimentary.
For what is animal-like.

My little furry friend knows all about this.

Hector, my house companion, is a little brown mouse who would usually make his famous entrance centre stage at 1 A.M.—
Scurrying his tiny little paws double-time across the floor after the dust of the day had settled.

I’d watch him live out his tiny little existence.
His adventures across the wooden slats.
Circling the perimeter of the room.
Jumping over ridgeways.
Evading the spotlight of my eyes.

All this effort to supply himself with something to eat.

And sometimes, depending on the outcome of my own tiny day, I’d make his life easy.
Throwing the few crumbs left of my supper onto the floor.

I’d leave it there.
Knowing that at some point during the nights, I would gently wait to hear the pitter-patter of his steps scurry across and receive my offering.

Other days—on the rarity that a guest was due to come over—I’d clear the floors of anything edible or mouse-friendly.
I couldn’t make it too easy for him.

I’d reassure myself, removing the guilt of it:
I couldn’t take meaning away from him.

My little brown Hector.
We relate in many ways.

And some nights, when he was my only night companion and things were very still, we’d stare at each other—trying to understand one another.
Without words, we would sometimes remain locked in awe of one another.

Both of us conscious creatures, existing through a strange, unexplainable spectrum of light.

Without words, enough time would pass that I would sometimes see the glimpse of a faint light bouncing gently from little Hector’s eyes and into mine.
Almost as if we remembered one another.

And through this beam of light—no language, no touch, nor words—just a sort of force that connects two strangers alive in one infinitely small place across an infinite web of space.

In moments like this, in the enormity of it all, in the darkness of his eyes—
The infinitesimal space around us would start to feel warm.

Like a cascading rain washing me away, I’d begin to feel my heart open a little.
I’d begin to hear it sing.
And tears would sometimes form as I’d feel the Love I felt as a child again.

Love for this small creature.
And all things that surrounded me.

My bed.
Maple.
The lights that shine high above me.

And when my heart was almost full—
When it was about to be fully open again—
Something would pull at me.

And then this cascading feeling would begin to fade.
Little Hector’s eyes would begin to dry.
The light would dim and disappear.

And time itself would then begin to start again.

And so too, little Hector’s hunt for food would exist again.

He would scurry off to the left.
And I would look to the right—
Allowing the light of the moon to drift me into a deep sleep, and allowing me to forget.

And so, like that, I would be left again.
As strangers across a vast ocean.

How sad it was to lose that feeling like this.

---

Part II – Gods Mountains

Papers lay scattered across the floor.
Unimpressive, heavy-fingered, ape-like typing.
Dull flesh smashing away against cold iron ore for seemingly no reason or conclusion.

I thought—if out there ain’t for me, then maybe inside might do just fine.
A place to speak from.
A place where someone ain’t yelling “No! God no, NO – that really wasn’t it, what were you…”.

There was something standard about my work.
Not quite there.
Formless ideas with a lack of direction, skidding across the page and ending in a melancholic fire.

But someone wise once told me there was mystery in me.
He said I was a wandering kid who didn’t know himself.
That I should:

“Keep going. Someday you’ll have something.”

But what about today?
What about this?
Was this not good enough?

See, I think I’ve been on the road to the pursuit of perfection for so long that the destination may as well be in the rear-view mirror, for all I care.
It’s been so long I don’t know if I have it in me sometimes.

Maybe Mama was to blame.
Or Papa.
Maybe all of them.

I remember hearing how much of a special boy I was.

“Oh, he really is somethin’! Just you watch him! Ain’t you, baby? Ain’t you somethin’ special?”

And she would smile at me, and I’d smile back.
Would always smile when hearing Love beamed at me in that way.

See, but now when someone compliments me, it’s hard to take anything as genuine or as truth.
See, if I ever was a special boy, I would’ve done at least something worthy by now—something honest.

And I guess at some point along the way, growing into myself, I came to see things for what they were.
And I started to not trust the words people crowned me with.
I’d lose trust in them.

And then eventually, I lost trust in myself.

Came to realise it was all just a lie to keep time moving ever forward.
Some form of insane fabrication to feel good in the present moment.

But no matter how much I know, how many understandings or visions scattered by notes on these papers around me—
It was too late.

Whatever it was kept me searching for it.
Clawing at my trousers, asking me to hold it, nurture it, and keep the dream alive.
A stubbornness you can’t shake, no matter how much you try.
No matter how much you come to learn—
It’s there.
It’s always there.
It’s who I became.

And now here I was, stuck in this four-walled box like I said I’d never be.
A prisoner of my own.
Waiting for it to happen.
A test of fate, and of faith.

I looked over into the fridge.
There was nothing inside but some bread, now stale, and some butter.

I smashed something together, put some pants on, and finally headed out into the hallway.
Slamming it into 6th gear, I roared down the street into the sunshine state—
And out of my mind.

---

I was finally outside.
I could feel the wind gliding across my forearms.
And that made me smile.

I knew there was a hardware store just down the street, so I got marching.
I thought—of all places, this place would definitely know about wire meshing.
After all, this place had real men with real jobs.
Good people making a good day’s living.

I knew you could tell a man who was a real American from miles high—just by taking one look at the way he stands.
If he was calm, standing on his own two heels digging into the earth—standing as if he was right where he should be—then heck, that was the American dream right there, baby!

Real men.
Like John Wayne.
Who say things like:

“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

Damn cool man.
Damn cool people that I’d imitate some days, as I’d walk in my plastic-heeled trainers against clean, tarmacked roads.

It was midday by now, and this very same tarmac was beginning to melt from the heat.
My head felt sore.
Thinking thoughts my eyes would rarely stay still.
My face felt fragile against the heat of the Sun.
Pale from all those late mornings and even later evenings.

I looked around.
It was quiet.

A blessing.

I lived near an old people’s home.
Called Palm Dales Retreat Centre.

Retreating from this life to the next.
A sea of silver hair and silver wheelchairs.
Smiles showing now silvery teeth.

I couldn’t imagine getting old and smiling.
Perhaps it was different to them.

The thought of knowing you’ve less life to live than what’s up ahead of you is a daunting thought to swallow.
Maybe I needed to saddle up and face it square in the eyes.

Say:

“Heck, take me whilst I’m looking at you at least. Don’t do it when m’back’s turned.”

Thoughts like these occupied me as I walked nervously on.

Nothing eventful happened on the rest of the journey to the store—
Other than a car, driven by a young fella with short hair on the sides and a mullet in the back.
He wore long, thin black sunglasses and was listening to something beyond music.

He blared his horn at an unsuspecting old timer as she crossed the road.
She must’ve been at least in her late 80s.
Walking stick in one hand and wearing a brown fur coat jacket.

I saw how her skin was loose and moved with her as she walked.
The boy didn’t stop in time and screeched to a halt, startling the old lady.

She flipped him off.
Raised one fist to the sky, shaking it at him in the air without ever looking in his direction.

Then shouted to the floor:

“Learn some fucking manners, asshole!”

And that was that.
I thought, quite right too.

But then he blared his horn back in frustration—loud and abrasively.
His car, modified with a particularly loud horn, was a risky move.

He was one honk away from giving the poor lady a heart attack and then what?
Prison, perhaps?
I’d be a witness then.
Important for me to remember the details.

It can all change so suddenly.
One minute he’s just listening to his music, watching trees fly by—
The next, he’s in the back of a police cruiser, escorted toward a small box room and a life where all your choices are already made for you.

Tempting.
I’d remember his license plate in case they needed me.

---

I reached the hardware store.

This particular hardware store was called Wilkes Hardware, nestled on a busy intersection with a beautiful oak tree growing up its side and touching the front edges of the black slate roof.

Wilkes had a double shopfront window from the turn of the century. Curved thick glass, sporting the latest in the Milwaukee tools fashion inside.

So I window-shopped.
Enjoying myself.
Thinking that for a moment, I fit the part.

I walked slowly, peering in at the detailing of the shop.
Looking at the wave patterned glass—a statement and a nod to the old way of things. No flat surfaces that are quicker and cheaper to make.
This was handmade.
It was old. There was a story being told in real time. Time had been spent choosing each part, detailing the woodwork.

For a small moment, I was just a regular guy looking to fix something.
Just someone looking to be useful.

But in a way, I kind of was that day.

So I smiled and went in.

Inside, there was this calm American man.
Strong jaw. In shape.
An honest man, I thought.

I could tell by the way he was standing.

“What can I do you for, sir?”

He said it welcoming me, like one of his own.

I explained my predicament—even my prodding and making it worse—though I left out the briefcase and umbrella details.
No one needed to know that.

He asked if a stronger material would be of use.
Ended his question with,

“Did you think of that?”

I paused, nervously.
That did seem like the most obvious solution.

So I snapped back,

“Oh, yes of course. I did think that earlier.”

Lies told through fake smiles work a charm in these situations.

But he was right.
A stronger material made much more sense.

“Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

I said, assertively.
I could feel roots growing into the ground.

I then pointed to a metal wire mesh behind him.
My voice at least one or two tones lower than usual.

10mm in thickness, coated with an Oxy-coat primer so it wouldn’t rust.
Sensible, of course.
Practical.

---

And so, as fast as I had gone in, I was out.

My trainers felt childish all of a sudden.
I had a sudden urge to buy some boots.
The kind with metal in the front in case I dropped something heavy, like a hammer, on them.

I turned the corner, more confident about my day.
I did something!

Now all I had to do was fix the problem my tiny little bastard gifted me last night.
Problem → solution → resolution → freedom!

Yes, this could be the way.

When broken down, things can be so simple.
It’s almost as if something needs to break, so that all the pieces scattered across the universe can find their way back together again.
To feel whole again.

It’s the sweet simplicity of our binary existence.
From the unholy to the whole.

To begin again.

So I began my journey back to my apartment.

Now that I had done something, I could treat myself to something sweet from my bakery.
The search for a perfect croissant was always on my radar.

Sometimes they are too dry and graze against the corners of your mouth—irritating me.
Other times they are soft and melt, full of butter, through the brown paper bag—glutinous, leaving a level of regret post-consumption.

The perfect air density ratio was required, so that when you bite into the dough, a crust-crunching sound is heard—
While your teeth gently snap through the pastry, with a light blend of oils to help it go down without cause for concern.

This bakery was halfway between the hardware store and the house.
A perfect extension to today’s plan.
A treat.
Something as a reward.

---

On my way there, I passed the old lady from before.

She seemed as if nothing had happened, with her idle smile—eyes drawn toward a rose bush.
She stopped intermittently to smell the drying roses.

I smiled as I walked past her, but she barely noticed me.

Something in me drew me toward one particular bush.
Like the old lady, I first stopped and stared at the flowers.

I took them in with brilliant detail.
It’s strange—
I’d walked past these every day for months, maybe years, and never truly saw them.

The way the sun hits each petal at different hues.
How each had its own outline, its own story to tell.

I thought how some looked like they might speak to me.
Others looked like characters from my favourite cartoons—bouncing and floating in the air.

So I stood there like the old lady.

Then I reached forward and bowed my nose towards one of them.
And I took a slight, short inhale.

It was timid.
I felt new to this experience.
And felt the weight of all the eyes of all the strangers I’d ever walked past in my life—judging me.

But when I looked up, I could see no one.
The old lady had disappeared.
And it was just me.

I was in a bubble of complete isolation.
But for the first time, it actually felt nice.

So I leaned forward again and took an ever-so-slightly more confident inhale.
Closer to the rose bush this time.

And then—
For the briefest of moments—
Everything became silent.

And I saw her again.

I saw her first as a memory.
But then just as an outline.

Vibrating like strings.
I could see right through her very being.

And behind her, I saw all the pain I had experienced.
And all the Love.
Dancing together as if they were friends.

Holding one another in a locked-in waltz that seemed to go on forever.
Two opposites as one.

There was this beam of light connecting them by their bellies.
And as one of them danced slightly further away, the other would be gently dragged ever closer.
Locked in this perpetual, fluid dance.

And as I stood there, I could smell all the years of being—interweaved into one another.
Not as one smell, but all smells.
All experience.

Not through my nose, but through my body.

Through each pore in my skin, I could smell everything that ever was.
As if it were coming from somewhere that’s always been here.
Something everlasting.

And then, once my body was full, I could feel all of the empty space that was left afterward.

I felt the infinite weight of gravity crushing on top of me.
The weight of my apartment.
The whole world.
Everything.

Everything from the smallest to the largest objects in our night sky—
I felt it all crushing on top of me, until it was all inside of me.
Until there was no difference between it and I.
All of me was all of it.

And so it was, like this, for hours and days and years.

I existed through this beam of light.
Connected by these dancing, faceless entities—these creatures, these people?

Until the light grew brighter and brighter.
Until it was all just…
Everything.

A vast ocean of all of it.

I could see it all.
I could see the whole lot—
Everything that ever was and ever will be.

I saw how it all is always just here.
Right here.
Will always be here.

How experience is just a slice of a moment in time that lasts forever.

I saw colours that have no name.
Sounds that are yet to be heard.
I saw lights flickering all around me, forming every face I had seen—
And every face I was yet to see.

I saw you.
And I saw me.
I saw us.

I saw that which is the source of the light behind it all.

And then—
Like a cacophony of light and sound—
Everything.
This land between
Became nuclear white.

And for the briefest of moments—
I saw silence itself.
I saw silence.

And so I breathed.
In—
And I exhaled out.

Yahweh. Yahweh.

---

And then I opened my eyes.

I was back.
Disoriented.

I moved my fingers.
And my toes.

Then I began to smile.

I saw the rose from earlier again, as if for the first time.
And sweetness began to fill my nose again.

I felt my feet on the floor.
And as I tried to feel my body again—
I felt a pinching by a thorn under the palms of my hands.

I noticed now how I had fallen headfirst into the rose bush.

So I stood.
Brushed myself off.

But before leaving—
I bent over and picked up a solitary rose that looked perfect in every way.

I was ready to go home.

Part III – Return to Silver Stream

So I turned around the edge of the softening red-bricked building, walking up a set of white peeling stairs and back onto the first floor where my apartment rested.

I noticed Maple wasn’t there—as often the case would be.
For some reason, although I expected her blue eyes peering through the narrow slit in her doorway, I had a feeling she wasn’t going to be there today.

There was more of a sense of quiet than anything else.
Her door was firmly shut, and I noticed then how thick the wood was separating us.

I thought about knocking.
But my mind—still on the mission—was calling me away.

Before leaving, I looked down and saw a doormat.
So I tilted my head to read:

“Welcome home. Come in! Don’t be a stranger.”

I wondered then how many felt the shift from entering as strangers and leaving as something more.
How poetic, in a way, Maple must have been—
To keep a sense of lightness and brevity in her life.

To have a heart as open after enough reason for it to remain closed.
To still see the joy in people’s eyes.
To see a spark—knowing that everyone was just trying their best.

So I bent down, onto one knee, and placed the rose from before onto her mat.
I never know whether these touches are more for the person or for my own sake—
Wanting to feel as if I’d done something.

I left feeling as if Maple was perhaps out on her next adventure.
Gliding down river streams, laughing wildly with her cheeky smile, telling stories of where she’d come from once upon a time.

---

I slammed the door behind me.
The excitement—finally—of completing my day’s adventure was getting the best of me.

I fetched some tools I’d found when I moved in.
I didn’t own any tools of my own.

Although now, by proxy, these rudimentary sticks and bones must now belong to me?
I wonder if I’d keep them when I moved out.
If I’d build a collection.
Tools for rituals yet unseen.

It was a simple process.

I unscrewed all the bolts—six in total.
Four on each corner, and two thicker ones on the top and bottom levels.

The framing came off as easily as the meshing had taken my finger prodding earlier.
Maybe I was an honest man after all.

I looked at the new frame and slapped it on with confidence.
Like this was a job I had done countless times.
Maybe I was born to do this.

Sweat began to collect on my forehead.
I wiped it off—cleanly and calmly.

And so it went like that for some time.

It flowed like a dance, one movement to another.
My hands felt like a ballet dancer.
Poised.
Perfectly attached to meaningful movement.
Full and with reason.

Gliding as if on the surface of a lake.

It felt as if I could go on forever—
That life could keep going forever.

I felt that, in that moment, no other existed.
I was here.
Right here in front of me.
And right now.

An audience watching down from the Gods.
My room as the stage.
The surrounding corners blacked out.

I could even hear my hand cutting through with sharp precision.
No thought in between.
No wasted gaps.
No dullness.

Just good, clean work.

And that was it.
The frame was on.

The wire meshing beamed at me like a stallion.
A wild mustang that’s finally given it up—finally stayed put.
Not trying to run away.

I did it.
And all on my own.

I was winning.

Today, I had completed something of note.
Something worthy.

This fly—or any other fly—would never be coming back to bother me through the nights.

Today, I had a purpose.
A meaning to just be.

I felt what it was like to be alive again.

---

And so now the sky was dark and quiet again.
There was a somber mood in my mind.

Clouds turned into a soft mist, coating the skyline with a pastel moon-paste that calmed and oozed.

It was finally cool, and the sweat was now long gone and dry.
It left a cold patter on my mind.

I laughed to myself, thinking about today.
I was grateful.

But melancholic in a way—
For how I had treated that which gave me hope.

When all was done and calm, I thought of home.
Of what Mama and Papa were doing.
I thought of my brothers.
And of long-gone people who once occupied my thoughts and heart—
The lovers, the friends.

And all the animals.

The sound of their barking.
Their breath panting all over me as they’d send my child’s mind into a laughing frenzy—
Tumbling all over me, licking my face, barking and cuddling.

I wondered how they all were, wherever they all were.

I thought how distant everything felt as I looked around the four walls of my room.
I thought of how fragile things had become.
And how life seemed good back then.

A hazy memory now.
Saved for special evenings and moments of stupor.
Foggy in a way—
Almost make-believe to the point of wondering whether it had happened at all in the first place.

---

So I looked down, one last time.
And seeing my little fly on the ground,
I realised now that life lies in the small things.

It flies in one day and turns your world upside down.

It’s the small moments where joy exists.
It’s in the joy—
But it’s in the pain, too.

Dancing around together.

It’s the feeling of riding a bike through a storm,
But also the feeling of it being stolen from you.

They’re all the same feeling.

It’s not the big stuff—
But the small stuff.

Even if, at the time, you think it’s a bastard in need of destroying—
Or a knot in your stomach that holds on as tears form in your eyes and you wonder why pain chose you in this life.

Everything belongs.
And everyone has a home.

From the size of the skies above to the very small little friend on my imperfect floor.

So with all that in my thoughts, I picked him up gently and looked at my new mustang wire meshing.
And without hesitation, I poked a brand new hole through the mesh—
Placing the small body of this fly to rest under the cover of the moonlit sky.

---

So I tucked myself back into bed, now cooler than before.
Rested on my back, I let out a long, soft sigh.

I turned my head to the room beside me.

By now, my little Hector, with his shiny dark piercing eyes, came over to see me.
He stopped halfway between, took his moment,
Then slowly—his tiny little paws got him ever closer.

Just close enough for me to pet him.
Just the once, mind—
Lightly, on his brown fluffy back.

I could feel the heat of his body emanating.
I could hear him breathing.
And that made me feel good.
And a little less alone.

I felt his heart racing—
To what felt to me the speed of light.

And that made me smile.

He then stopped and stood very still, looking directly at me.
The room was very dark by now, and it was ghostly silent.

And at last, little Hector let out a sound and said:

“What was that story about?”

I smiled at him.
And I replied:

“It was a little story about you, Hector.
A new friend.
And a story about a rose that found a new way home.
It’s a story about everything—
And a story about absolutely nothing at the same time.
I think it’s time to sleep now.”

And so his heart began to slow.
His breath began to deepen.
His eyes began to get very, very heavy.

And finally, the sparkle began to soften—
And fade into a quiet purr.

And all things, once again, became absolute and still.

And that was that.
That was the story about everything—
And the story about absolutely nothing at all.

It’s just a story.
Don’t you think?