Of all the stories–this one makes the most sense. It is the story of coming and going, of circles and commotion, of pictures and pastels and moving trains. Like all stories–no one feels anything and everything happens all at the same time. Like most stories–no one leaves and no one stays. Like no other story–you wait and you fail.
In that dusty room with the dull walls entrenched in gloom–pictures of happy ghosts stared at him. There was smoke but he was not smoking. There were fire flies–thousands of them and they suffocated him. There was a door–which was closed and from the other side he could hear voices of people and laughter and he could not go see what they were and listen to their stories for he did not know what they meant. But the door was not locked–it was just closed. And he did not know the faces of the people even though he saw them everyday–every night–every moment. He did not recognize them. He did not understand the language they spoke because he was not who he was.
There was a storm which brewed somewhere outside the window which was halfway shut–because there was light but not enough light. Outside was just an empty sky–which told him nothing. Outside were children playing on the grass and riding the swings–and he could not tell if they are happy or sad, red or blue, living or dead!
And there was a sparrow which always came to sit on the big willow tree outside his window. It would just look at him with dark melancholic eyes–and he would smile. Because it reminded him of things which were never to happen. Was he happy or was he sad? Was he living or was he dead? Was he a sparrow or was he a firefly? Was he the sky or was he the sea? Could he feel or could he fly?
Those who were outside the room would keep knocking, trying to get in–to peer and to color him purple. They did not realize that time was an abstraction–and there was no time and if there was, they were out of time. His room had no clocks. Just walls which seemed perturbed. And still–there was knocking on the door–they could enter, for the door was not locked and they would stop momentarily and start knocking again.
He did not know anymore–whether it was day or night? Summer or winter? Whether he was or he wasn’t–for he had no mirrors or music or color. He was a vivid figure, a shapeless form who was stuck in a room–that was not even a room but a block.
The storm had taken over him. There was lightening and thunder. And anger and wrath. All, everyone spoke to him in were languages unknown and foreign to him. And he never knew what it all meant. Because he was a paroxysm of empty unhinged feelings.
And every day, before waking up–he would see choirs and songs and bards–and roses on tall trees. There were paintings of naked Greek women and Roman men–and orgies of filthy rabid dogs. Angels sang hymns about the absence…the great Absence. Regret lamented and Glory prayed. And on a rusty bench–a red haired girl sat and kept staring dead at the horizon. And she would always wait for him to come and she would wait for him to leave. So he sits in the yellow train and passes the hazy shadows and pastel colored buildings but the train always goes in circles…
He would wake up in sweats–in the room which is not even a room but a block of clay. And there is smoke around him–and a thousand fireflies dancing above him suffocating him. And from outside the door are noises–unfiltered laughter and conversation. And he does not understand what it all means.
It is a story like all stories. No one enters it and no one ever leaves.