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They don't know pain, he thought. Moon shadows lay across his path as he walked through the night, and he almost felt them caress him, like the fingers of the night. The sounds that accompany the darkness resounded through that inky blanket which shrouded him, and he thought that this was the voice of night. The stars hung overhead and all around him, watching over him as he walked, and he thought that these were the eyes of night. A cool breeze meandered over the hills and down through the valley in which he walked, playing softly on his face, and he thought that this was the breath of night. And the moon loomed ominously overhead, bathing the world in shades of grey, and he thought that this must be the heart of night. The heart and soul, that is, giving life to the night and coloring the world in a monochromatic pallor. The night can understand me, he thought.
He continued on through that ethereal plane, his thoughts dancing through the darkness like fish between the banks of some unknown pond, hiding beneath its surface. And the night harbored him, and enfolded him into its arms.
Here I cannot know pain, she thought. Pain had always been a part of her, but here she could escape from it. Here was a place which was different, where the turmoil of life couldn't find her, and she could be free for as long as she would stay. But here was where she had realized that her pain had been her own fault, and that troubled her. So many things had gone wrong, so many dreams were left unfulfilled, so much had been lost, because she had been too afraid to reach for it. It was all her fault, she knew, and she couldn't help but wonder what might have been. What might have been. It was her worst pain, because she couldn't get over it. And it is self-inflicted, she thought. But here she could get away from all that. She could forget the past.
From somewhere high above, a paradox looked down on a solitary figure. It said to itself, she is one of my own, for her pain has brought her here.
Tu est dans ma coeur et dans ma tete
He stopped walking, and stood, letting his gaze focus on the moon, which looked back at him with a quiet apathy. He had noticed long ago how the light of the moon rendered everything in shades of grey, but just now it seemed more pronounced. It seemed that all color had gone out of the world, and once again he was left alone in his melancholy world. Alone except for the night, of course. He said to the night, "What would you have me do? How will you comfort me?" And the night said, "Give me your heart. For too long we have been merely companions. Give me your heart, so that we can be one." And so he did. And the night said, "Give me your hand. For in doing so you will be showing that you truly appreciate all I have done for you." And so he did. And the night said, "Give me your soul. You have based your life, your mind and your thoughts on my wisdom which I have granted you. Give me your soul, so that I can speak to it directly, and comfort you." And he gave his soul to the night, and was bound to it.
She walked. She had strayed from her usual path and walked now toward a place where she had never been. Off in a direction she hadn't thought to try. She walked now toward the valley where the winds came from. The winds always passed through there before they met with her, and she had thought many times about turning toward the wind and just walking. Walking to where only the wind had been before, to places which only the wind had seen. She wanted to know where the wind began. She walked, and she saw a solitary figure in the distance. The figure wandered slowly, as if it had no real destination in mind. A leaf in the wind. That's what she sometimes thought of herself as. A leaf in the wind.
Requiem en pace
Doubt. Realization. Thought. Regret. Those were the stages he had been through. He was currently regretting his entire life. He had been thinking again, and he had stumbled upon some thoughts which he had never thought before. His life was in solitude. That was how it had always been. But what good does that do? He had dwelt in solitude because he was afraid. Afraid of what, though? He didn't know. What is life? Life is a series of events in a sea of time. Life is what is made of it by the person who possesses it. He had dwelt within himself, with his thoughts. Thoughts are nothing but sketches on the canvas of the mind. They mean nothing unless something is made of them. He knew now that the night had been wrong. He also knew that he had been wrong in revolving his life around melancholy principles and solitude. But now there was nothing more for him. He was bound to what he was.
He saw her about the same time she saw him. They walked toward each other.
"You are like me," she said to him, and he responded with a nod. He could see the truth in her eyes. The eyes are the windows to the soul, he thought.
"We both walk alone tonight," she said. "Come with me, and let us end our solitude."
"I cannot," he replied. "I am bound to the night. I have molded myself to its image and to its principles. It's all I know."
"Why do you bind yourself to false prophets?" she asked. "Your reluctance to leave shows that you simply don't want to leave. You've been able to leave all along."
He knew she spoke the truth, but didn't know how to relinquish his lifelong companion, who now existed as his captor. His solitude had given him peace of mind, if nothing else. But his earlier realization came back to haunt him. What is life if it is spent alone? Nothing truly exists except in our minds. Reality is nothing but an amassed manifestation of universal perception. I am nothing alone, he thought. Nothing but a series of sketches on the confines of a canvas that only I can see.
Together they walked, and they turned their faces into the breeze as the night waned. They walked with no particular destination in mind, two leaves blown by the wind. 1