Journeys and Star Gazing

Boredom sat heavily on him, like dust on an old, untouched shelf. He stretched out his limbs, a shell adrift with no anchor, skimming across some dull, endless sea. Nirvana, the world whispered, was an empty thing if this was it. Peace? It felt like the slow pulse of something unfeeling, a lifeless melody humming in the background.

But there was a whisper, too, some echo of Buddha, prophets, and wanderers who saw meaning where he could find none. “The world is your playground,” they seemed to say, and yet, the toys scattered around him were chipped and faded, the games already won and lost. The thrill was gone.

He looked down at his hands, at his shoe, at the cigarette butt lying desolate on the cracked pavement. He saw only a cigarette butt, but when he reached for it, his fingers were wrapped in some spectral glove, ancient and unknowable, numbing his touch. A silky chant rose from the earth, and in the flickering haze, he caught a glimpse of her—the forgotten Madonna on the run, the ghost of a purpose that had long since slipped through his fingers.

And so, he took to the highway in the wind, that endless road North, where the sands met the sky and eternity seemed to lie just around the bend. The prophet in his mind handed him a book and an angel with curls handed him his soul. Here, he thought, is something close to freedom. Here, he felt the weight of all things lightened by the wind as he climbed mountains, lit fires, and let his words drift into the stars—alone yet somehow complete.

But the nights were haunted by shadow games. By candlelight, he felt the passing of unspoken truths caught in the heavy air, thick with incense and echoes. Sitting across from him, his companion cast her glance, a holy arc, over him. No mirrors were needed, only the quiet acceptance of their hearts pulsing in time. Together, they watched the fall of all things—leaves, bottles, lives—and knew that letting go was the only way to hold anything.

He felt the years burn away like the slow ember of his cigarette, holes punched through the fabric of his past. In the distance, a gladiator carried worlds on his shoulders, a Da Vinci gaze locked on some distant horizon. Yes, he thought, pull the plug on life’s bath. Let it all drain away. And as the waves of what was and what would be crashed against his pedestals, he let them crumble, the sand running through his fingers in memory of time slipping by.

The smell of white night, nostalgic and sweet, settled over him like a soft rain. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight and lightness of it all. His life, his love, and his losses had collided like the gentle kiss of billiard balls, a game played without cues, a moment that had once perched on the tree they’d planted in the garden of then.

As he let it all fall, he saw that his life was neither storm nor fury but dew on a flower, a brief glisten in the morning light that would, by noon, disappear. Smiling to himself, he walked into the wind, his footsteps soft on the path toward meaning or maybe just toward peace.