I am old.
I see a small house in the center of a large field. The grass is golden and waving softly at me, rustling, which in the explosive absence of all other sounds consumes me. The grass sways, I inhale, the world is quiet to such a degree that it rings out an orchestral bombast which builds up in anticipation before slowly solemnly exhaling as the stalks settle back to their original position, and I stand. The field slopes up and down for ages until it reaches the end of the Earth and falls off, out of sight. A magnificent, all-encompassing violet and blue sky towers overhead filling all of Imagination, hastily but beautifully painted in dainty broad strokes by a brush made of golden grass. If only one could fall upward into azure eternity.
The house is a brown wooden thing. It is sturdy, reliable, and nondescript. It sits agelessly, uncertain of the year, only feeling the sedated early Autumn like so many thousands before. The soothing breeze washes over me again, enveloping my mind and cradling it into a sound sleep. I have been here before. As I approach the house, the horizon doesn’t change. I step, step, feel the breeze, step, pause for a moment, step, stare at the house; I feel warmth emanating from within. The sky will imminently yield to darkness, yet never does. I spend days in this field, completely unaware of the passage of time. For a brief moment I turn around, only to see, at the edge of space, another man, much younger, wandering. He has a look of someone who once knew where he was going but has lost confidence. I can see him looking around for his destination, but not seeing it. Over him the sky is bluer, the grass is greener, and further beyond are purple mountains and streams of tribulation.
I stare, and smile. I know that look of confusion and self-doubt. I know that sense of dread that perhaps home will never avail itself. I remember those mountains forcefully puncturing the vault of the sky, the placid lakes cooling me off, cleaning me, quenching my desires. I remember staring ahead angrily, contemptuously calling for purpose.
The wind blows my hair, and I turn forward. I have arrived. I see myself on the porch, swaying. I feel the hard wicker under me, the hard back supporting my now tired body. I feel the wind’s valediction caress my face softly. I see the young man turn toward the house, having never considered it before. He begins a slow walk toward me. The sun sets, and the dark purple and all the golden glory before me is subsumed by pitch darkness, punctuated with sparkling and spectacular specs of bright truth in the sky overhead. The cold refreshing wind is all that can be heard in a sea of silence.
Thus begins eternity.