Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.

The raw strength of youth well spent, I laid at peace under sterile rays and inside a clean, whitewashed room. Slowly, the monitor beeped at ever constant, infallible intervals. The walls were homely and the service was well, but after some time an inevitable urge manifested within the dusty crevices of my mind causing me to endeavor for a change in surroundings. With ease, I removed myself from the monitors and needles causing a high-pitched ring to fill the air. I paid no mind to it. I raised myself upon my ancient legs off the bed and started out towards the flowers that awaited outside.
As I set a foot near the door of my room, the footsteps and stomps of men and women burst into the room, all in uniform clothing. They hurried past me, filling the room. Rushing and throwing shouts at each other, they looked to each other in urgency and made noise only busy people make. I paid no attention to them. Looking forward again, I stepped out.
The sunlight was fierce and unforgiving; it forced me to adapt to its unrelenting light. I squinted hard and soon I could open my eyes and make out that same whiteness I was accustom to from my previous habitat. White? That's not right, I thought. I bent down low, placing a finger on the pale ground—it was cold. It was winter. It had snowed outside. How did I not notice? It was as if I was locked away from the world itself when I lived in that room.
I walked further and found a bench, covered in snow and icicles, upon which I sat down and took a moment's rest. Surveying my once again new environment, I looked out at the miles of horizonless ice forming in blue and silver flashes. The icicles hanging from the scarce number of trees held a certain perfection to it like diamonds that had been melted then solidified into thin, smooth, and sharp points.
After some time, I returned to my walk. Where I was walking to, I know not—I simply desired to walk. To put one foot in front of the other and see I was not that incapacitated elderly man that I feared to become. So, I walked with much euphoric enthusiasm, visiting old places I had once knew and places that were still alien to me. Never tiring once from my pace. And before I knew it, I had traversed such a distance that I arrived back at my home, where I once lived—before I suffered that sickness that confined me to a much "safer and clean" one. The house was in a much poorer state than when I last saw it, yet with such an appearance—dilapidated and the color faded—I could still recognize it with much clarity, with the same life it held as when I lived in it.
I came to the front steps and tried the door. It opened without a key. I stepped in taking in the atmosphere, feeling the air. Nothing seemed much different. The furniture was covered with much dust and the floorings cracked as I placed weight upon it, but it was much very much unchanged. My eyes scanned for more pieces of furniture and with each piece I recalled the memories associated and feelings of profound nostalgia. There were so many memories, almost centuries old.
I felt tired. So tired. The door to my bedroom was open so I went in to lie on the bed. I wonder, where is everybody? My wife has passed away, and my only son and daughter must be elsewhere making families of their own. I wonder—as I lay my head down—if they're doing all right. Closing my eyes, I let the dark slowly fade into the room.

Dream
Summer. The sprinkler ran back and forth across the lawn. Beautiful, transient rainbows jumped out from the streams of evenly divided water.  I could hear the children playing, shrieking and laughing as they ran across and over the slippery, wet grass. Their smooth, pale feet gliding them from one patch to another. Their clothes drenched in water and dappled with sunlight. There were only two of them, but they had as much fun as if there were four.
            I just sat afar on the porch—a slight grin on my face—watching closely so as to keep them from potentially damaging themselves. Looking up, the sun suddenly appeared to grow brighter and brighter to the point where it became almost blindingly intolerable. I shielded my eyes, but the light continued, until it engulfed everything and nothing could be seen—save pure, white light.

Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.