Lethe

He drinks his little cup of medicine and waits for evening to fade out. He turns out the light and looks out through a small, square window. There is a faint glow of streetlights reflecting off snow, and a vague haze that must be the husks of trees.

He turns away from the window, turns into the pillow. It is time to dream.

Hours pass, half-aware. He sees visions inspired by medication, the modern man's muse. They are so vivid, these visions, that he knows he will remember them when he wakes. He wakes then, and on the instant he feels the visions fading away into an oblivion beyond reach of his memory. Perhaps it is for the best.

This happens many times in the night until the night turns into morning. He wakes suddenly. His eyes open onto that little square window again. He sees snowflakes falling from a grey sky. He sees the husks of naked trees. He watches the snowfall for hours. Sounds of human voices wax and wane around him. They are signs of life. He pretends to be severely ill. This gives him an excuse to remain aloof from the human sounds outside. Then, embarrassed by his own morbid imagination, he turns away from the snow and turns into the pillow and sleeps some more.

The dream visions return. This time he does remember them. Friends and strangers pirouette around him in a circle in a stately dance. He looks into their eyes. Their eyes are all made of the same smoky glass and no one can see him. They know where he is but their eyes do not see him. Nor do they see each other; each one thinks they are alone. No words are exchanged. No one has anything worth saying.

He wakes again. He is surprised that the dream has not left him feeling disturbed. It is late into the afternoon. The sun sheds a few final sparks as it sinks behind the twilight. Perhaps there will be stars tonight. But he will not see them.