“Long forgotten,” the man thinks as he stares at his hand, holding a pen, faced with the burdens of his everyday paperwork. Nostalgia creeps in and he finds himself ensnared in that very world he thought had been lost, forgotten, deserted. All those years that had passed him by, and not a single day in all of them spent in his childhood world of fantasy, mystery, silent adventure.
How easy it is to forget the things that once moved us.
How easy it is for the world of grey and mundane to intrude and conquer the world that was birthed from our dreams, our hopes, our longing for the beauty that hides within the mystery of the unknown.
Now the man, as he contemplates and starts to reminisce about the child within, the child that speaks in colour and sees through kaleidoscope eyes, he suddenly finds a tear fighting out of the side of his eye. He is captivated by the soft tingle that it leaves on his cheek, and he leaves it to run further down as he finds that leaving it to run its course is the only way to truly embrace it, is to leave it to be what it is.
The gentle, silent teardrop of the past was never meant to be flattened on the very hand that had forgotten what it was like to let the stories unfold.
And yet, the drop left to itself is still as much part of the man as the hand that now shivers.
As much as reality paralyzes the man, the man is paralyzing reality.
As the teardrop falls onto the paper, and the drop infests the page piece by piece, smudging the ink, the page turns from grey into colour. The man puts his face down on the page, moves through it, and finds himself staring down from a clear blue sky at a wondrous and colourful world, one that looks equally familiar as it does new.
Falling forcefully yet softly down into his forgotten world, he decides to let go of his urge to return to what was known just moments before.
The man, having been caught up in grey, now sees with eyes restored, with all walls removed, and an endless world again to explore.
The man and the child, now, has become one.