I laid in my bed after thirteen hours of sound sleep, paralyzed. I was astonished upon seeing the man who had freed me from the slumber that had held me so tightly in its grasp: this man shared my face, but had transformed from being brushed and chiseled by the sands of time over what looked to be around a decade. Curiously, though, he felt like an autumn breeze and made me feel the same. His smile was light and airy, and his hands were a gentle complement to his general demeanor. His hair shone under the light in a matte manner; its pigment was a bright shade of nutmeg reminiscent of the oxidized leaves that had littered the driveway in the New England autumns. He was a dream, another evanescent vision that would soon become cloudier as time went on — even days and weeks would weather him more than the years of time he appeared to have endured in some alternate, distant past — or rather, in some faraway future straight ahead. He took a U-turn and blew over and away as weakly as a gust of air pushed forward only by the lungs of a single human being, and he left an impression on me as strong as a violent gale, tearing at the sides of the safe-house within the walls of which all of our worst demons hide, the skin of the body.
“We can avoid everyone together someday. Let’s run away.”
No, that cannot be right, can it? I must have read his cold gaze incorrectly — we must have someone on whom we can depend in the future, no?
“We can fly under the radar and have a whole circle of people who like us.”
No — are these the only options? I must have misinterpreted his approachable gesture — if we reach out hand out like this too many times, we will only encounter trouble. We should only do for the people closest to us, so when they are helped up, they do not pull us down, and those closest to us should be those who can understand us, not those from whom we must hide.
Now that he was gone, I could not interpret his message at all. He disappeared as quickly as he came, and he pulled his hand away before I could decide on an adequate response. I was left alone, questioning whether there was a message at all. All I knew was the autumnal sensation he provided, which lingered even after the last cloudy wisps of his likeness wavered and faded into the scenery which once surrounded him.
Just as I am, he was but an ideal image, stretching across time to aid the fallen. Will I ever see him again?