Some things, we do have in common. Rough shapes and rough details of your self, others can pick up. Throughout our lives, we communicate. It is just that sometimes, it doesn’t feel good enough. And that is what gives you access to the feeling. And the feeling can be so strong and clear, it is as if the things we have in common, are but contrivances. That the significant bits lie elsewhere. That what makes you exist, is the very bond between your mind and soul. And nobody else can feel that. Nobody can feel that you truly exist the way you do.

Sleep is invoked to douse the loneliness. In sleep, you don’t know there’s something more to yourself than what others see. You feel understood and complete, and content. I do this and I find I gradually forget what I am. In time, only a select few moments tell me otherwise. This is one of those. Now, I know. Now, I care. Later today, I might have forgotten myself again.

I wish to be awake, always. That is why I care about art. That is why I must write stories. To make sure I remember, that I am sometimes awake and aware. To feel life that is actually my own flowing through my veins. Before I come entirely undone.

“Are you saying love and evil are made of the same elements?” “With a palette, you can make any painting. By itself the palette is not art. It is the configuration of colors that makes all the difference. I am saying you have to choose what you believe in, because nobody can tell you what is right and wrong. That is the depth of your free will, and the concept of faith.” “What does faith have to do with any of this?” “Faith is to dare to acknowledge that you believe in something not because someone else told you to. Instead, you believe it simply because you know it is true. Only such a belief can be worth fighting for.”

“I want to be saved. I want someone to come and give me all the joy and, even more importantly, all the good and special emotions which I still get in glimpses: the meaning of life. Vitality. Art in pure form. Nature’s gift. Everything else falters compared to these dreams, these promises, whose mere existence I only realize in a rare moment.”

“And in that moment, every single time, it is like a revelation. All of a sudden, everything is fine, I am not alone – I am not even myself, I am merely the emotion, taking pleasure from its own existence. I am the frost, I am the birds, I am the white-rimmed leaves waiting to drop from the branches. I am the air, chilly and full of memories of past times when the emotion existed. I am the earth that waits, the deer that grazes warily by the trees, the fox that sneaks past looking for things to eat. I am my self, and I am something completely different. I am free, in focus, but without thought.”

“I have sought love, and I still do, but I am not fully a human being, a social creature. When I am my self, in harmony and peace, I am immaterial. This meaning and value can be brought forth by love, but love is not it. I can follow it alone. Back to the soul. Depths of my heart that doesn’t concern other people. I want those emotions back, and I can have them back without having to seek love first. I need my self. Me without biological limitations. Love could help me, but I… I have to seek other ways.”

That and a million more words would never be enough. Even understanding and appreciation of all the principles of music that we had learned throughout our thousands of years upon the globe, would never be enough.

The world stood still for a while. She was unaware she had just been thinking about something. A restless kind of glow surrounded her, reminiscent of the excitement before a rollercoaster ride or an urgent kiss, except it was embedded within the very glow itself. Tangible and not fleeting. It was not her own emotion, but the emotion that was there was not intruding to her. It was more like she was allowed to take part in its discovery, trusted in to understand.

A beat appeared. It was not heard and it was. A moment later, she could see the glow reacting, synchronising itself with the beat. Not only a sync in time, but in emotion as well. A soft beat, gradually clearing the mist in careful and gradual nudges.

In front of her, a denser part of the mist was beginning to take form. Was she was beginning to see, she felt she knew already, but only as clearly as the outlines of that form. Then, coming like the excitement before, a realization that what she saw, was the music itself. It was the face of this musical piece, as it had defined itself thus far. The shape was beyond any geometry she knew. She was not certain she should be able to see such a shape at all.

It proceeded to break up into pieces and become mist yet again. This time, however, there was another kind of anticipation hanging in that mist. She nodded, a sign of her acceptance. And she felt as if a flow was directed into her own soul. She found she could feel the music as if in dance, but she wasn’t dancing, she had never mastered that art. And this was so much more. No, she was expressing the music in some other way, an invisible way.

The mist changed, and she responded, her role in sync with the roles of the mist, together forming a clearer picture of what was being brought forth. Several shapes were beginning to take form now, veils of mist wrapping around them. She could not determine any color, only that there were just enough of them. There were also smells, changing conditions of the air, and sensations she did not know she could even register. All of it playing many roles: discovery, reminding of what has been discovered, and lighting up the path to what lies yet to be discovered. Each moment, each movement, with its very own revelation.

Vast forests had spilled into sight as soon as he had taken flight. He could see no end to this dark green. Only occasionally broken by light green clearings and orange-brown cliffsides, the forest seemed very dense. He could also spot a river, cleaving its own way through the landscape. A good distance below him, he could see it run close to a cliffside. He had, in fact, come into this world flying along the very same cliffside. He decided to seek out its top, so he peeked up so far he almost flipped over.

It was a cliffside like no other, that’s for sure. It had some sort of huge spikes coming out of it. Not to mention that the wall was a very unexpected twist in the landscape. And the rock was odd. Then there was all the green. Why was there green on a cliffside?

“But of course! It’s a giant tree!”

Dropping the bag, he slowed his pace so that he could take it all in. Leaves were dropping all around, some caught in the wind, some whisping across the ground. Looking up at the sky, he could see them swirl, adding an element of life to the treetops and the clouds, in a succession of beautiful moments. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he focused on the sounds instead. He could hear where the leaves rustled and where they fell. In his mind it was as if he had never closed his eyes at all.

And just like that, the connection was made. Throughout his whole body, he could sense it. He could not explain it, but there was no doubt as to what it was. All that remained, was to move out of this position. He started by shaking his arm. It felt both natural and not at the same time, and nothing like he expected. It was more like hitting a branch and sense it sway. The movement belonged to the thought, but not so much to the body.

Of course not. His body had nothing to do with it. The thought flowed through his consciousness along with a suggestive notion; why, then, would the body that is not present, set the limits for what he could do?

Whispering his farewell, he flew into another world.

She stumbled, but he caught her in a heartbeat. Laughing, she hugged him and then dragged him on, nearly making him stumble this time. By now, they had long forgotten why they were hurrying. It was not so important anymore. The most important thing now, was that the path did not end.