In Mind

He opened his eyes and the sun had gone. Suddenly, he had been moved to a new place. It was cold here. He felt the temperature of his skin rapidly fall. His sweat, so prolific in his seashore home, crystallized into ice as cold vapors escaped from him to find a warmer haven. He thought he smelled snow, but too soon his nose burned and he could smell no more.

He looked about to be confronted by a barren wasteland. Empty of people, without life, dark, and the earth hard and ungiving. But most of all, it was the cold. His feet stood on cutting blades of windblown frozen stone. His hair was petrified by the scowls conspiring with his own perspiration.

It was a place that seemed familiar to him. This paralyzed him. From sheltered yesterday, he found himself, brought by an unseen force, to a chilling tundra devoid of life. It was familiar, even - cozy.

He saw the crescent moon laying along the horizon and wanted to feel the warmth of its presence. In this desolate land, that one light fed him and pulled him closer. He ventured his hand forward and, without warning, he was slipping. Faster and faster his feet crossed the stones. He had long ago lost feeling in his soles, but he saw the stray rocks cut through his feet as he glided across the landscape. There was no blood. What there was was frozen.

He hurled closer and closer to the horizon. Traveling faster than the gales squalling behind him, he knew he had caused the movement. He propelled himself towards the crescent. He knew this place and again it frightened him.

The moon rose out of his reach. It climbed to the heavens and it was full. The magic orb shined over him, beckoning like a window to his past. He reached again for it, but this time he did not move. His arms stretched to grasp it, but his feet anchored him to the earth. His soul battled to fly, but the cold penetrated even it and he began to cower from his self.

The moon began to set. His face was white without blood, and his eyes barely moved in their cloudy gaze. He could no longer separate his hands, they were sealed in a thin layer of sweat -- a makeshift glove.

As the moon reached the horizon, he reached again -- a last hope. His body creaked like an old ship caught in an ice float. He lunged forward, but his feet, caught up on the rocks, groaned immobile. The rocks gave. He began his silent glide.

Pushing, wishing, thrusting, reaching his body raced to the horizon he had just left. The moon sank lower and lower. The crescent grew lighter, but his eyes closed as he drove into the winds. In a last chance he lurched forward. His arms spread and stretched out to catch that glimmer.

His hand passed through a wave. His body shuddered as the crescent vanished into the no moon. He had touched it, but it had gone before he could catch it. Another day would pass before the moon returned.

Would the sun rise?

He was back. The music roared, the dancers shimmered, the sun glared on the wild bodies. He forgot the cold loneliness of his mind and that last moment of awakening when the philosophers folded away oblivion.