Brush strokes pass over the surface of his mind, fleeting and insistent. They pause at the edge as if barred. He knows what - who it is - and relaxes. Leaving himself open. An open book, pages blank and ready to be written (re-written) upon.
The chair beneath him warms, raising his own temperature as it fills every millimeter with energy. Making him an extension of its surface. His eyes are open but there is no ceiling above him, no throng of scientists and, later, doctors exclaiming and demanding explanations. All there is blue, light and sea and sky - and her voice. She calls him by name, embracing him and comforting him as she tells him that he is home.
Originally posted here. Feel free to comment there using OpenID if you don't have an account.| comments