He exists only ever to the left of my vision, a mirage of comforting fear. Why he chooses to sit to the side I don't know. Maybe its not his choice. I know all too many I've made weren't mine.
I've stepped out of the building only for a second when a cool wave hits my neck, it sends shots of frozen electric upward. They rake through me violently, as I become exposed to the elements, only one of which matters, and my legs move against the grain in a zigzag. My left reaches my right and I can stop.
The sounds of a gentle trickle reach me long before the delicate sight of water. Its mouth stands way above myself, its source on par with the man in my vision. I think he sees it to, for he smiles softly, an unusual sight, a welcomed one nonetheless. I stare straight at him, still not knowing why he's there, why he's here with me? I'm left wondering. I stare straight ahead, right at the water before me. I pull a piece of black hair from in front of my face to behind the brink of where my eyes can see.
I breath in the silver wall. Its a heavy breath. And there's a girl, too full of hope to own the grief her face bears, yet too vulnerable to seem so strong - though beyond which, her beauty is undeniable. It radiates in the grey specs, shines through the broken splinters, in awe, I know not how to admire. So I turn away from the visage a part of myself knows I was supposed to see.
Walking feels much less productive when you're already lost. At least that's what I've always thought. This past year however; its been too long for anyone to feel any sense of productivity. He agrees, he always does.
"Where to?" he asks.
"I wish I knew," I reply.
He's not surprised, he never is. We walk, in fact usually crawl, through everything together. Have done for the last year, will continue to do so for as long as he stays around, I guess.
I enjoy the sight of nature's cotton wool and man's gentle architecture, more at least, than the silently demanding company of people. People who, without purpose, demand more from me than they can from themselves: I guess that's the point.
My feet draw unwittingly to a stubborn stop at the foot of a tall white door. It's the kind of door I always expected to be under my bed as a child, you know, the kind of door that you would enter and find every monster of your imagination behind. I enter through it, he urges me on, and to my surprise I find the open warmth of the room to feel most like an invitation, a far stretch from the burdened dungeon I had been anticipating.
Intuition, maybe muscle memory, takes over as the walls surrounding me become more and more familiar with each step through their depths. So much so, that by the time I reach a small room end the end of a long corridor, i find myself thinking but twice before taking a seat in one of the only three chairs in the space.
So I did know after all, where I was going I mean.
A smiling face emerges from the locked door straight ahead. "Miss... Doctor Sante will see you now, please come in."
He lives in grey as I live in light. Or was it the other way around?