He sat in quiet reverie on the balcony, the songs of the night reverberating in the peaceful dark. All silent but for the tired old chair shifting and creaking as he spun in slow deliberate circles, smoke drifting into the trees. It was these moments he cherished most, freed from the burdens of the long light, a boy again, lost in thought.
Time and circumstance drifting into nothingness, poetic evasion soothing his tired mind. He drifts, sailing high on halcyon wings.
But.
Then the moment is gone, lost, returning to the ether.
As it always does.
Reality finding its place once again.
He stands, placing his cigarette into the ashen pile and opening the sliding door. He pauses, taking one last look outside, onto the dusty planks of faded wood, at the empty mugs, stained with coffee and dreams. He would miss these moments, this house, truly was his home. In mind and spirit. His lips curled to a brief smile.
This life, it is worth it.
The struggle endured,
the brief moments savoured.
Yet Nirvana to the last.