The way home

a mood story

He decided to draw a map. If he mapped out his mind, he’d find a way out. Eventually, he figured, he would need to redraw it, on a large canvas, tracing across the continents of papers beneath. For now he started with what he felt to be the center. That room inside himself with no windows but a cot.

The room was walled by darkness. It surrounded him like water. He could see himself staring at it from the cot. He was sitting on its edge, bent, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

He stood and walked forward. It seemed like the only way.

Once he crossed into the darkness, he heard himself step in puddles. He could feel it too. Each step as if tapping into and through to another side, and immediately falling onto a shallow bottom. But he had the sense it wasn’t all puddles below. Only where he stepped.

He kept on. He liked the patter of it. He began to decide where to step — or leap or lunge — based on the sound he had made and now wanted to hear and next and on.

Dop dop-dop dop dop dop-dop dop dop dop-dop dop dop…

Dop-dop dop-dop dop-dop-dop dop dop-dop dop dop-dop dop…

In time he forgot the map and stepped on, as if he had never known anything else.

Author: petersontee

I write

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