He was reclining in a chair shaped like a bowl, resting upon a wooden base. It was much like the feeling of being encased in the womb, yet with a startling degree of comfort and a lack of a umbilical cord attached to his bellybutton.
It was upon this throne, that the man mused. Contemplated, even. The vastness of the space he found himself within. A bedroom, large in size with a walk in closet and a bathroom, fumes of paint tinted the air he breathed as he sat upon this chair, typing on his laptop with quiet intensity.
Listening to the sounds outside of his home, the man could discern cars in the distance, growling softly as they made their way to whichever the destination may be. The sound would swell at first and gently fade into the wind until it was difficult to distinguish between the two.
Winter was coming. As he sat in his chair, the back of his head rested near an open-window to which cold, icy fingers reached inside to brush lightly against his neck. This was his feared nemesis, the bane of his existence, an enemy that is silently marching towards his door in proportionally greater strength with each passing day.
Summer has faded into the nothingness from whence it came. There would no longer be joy in stepping outside to appreciate the tree in his front yard, as it regretfully shedded the leaves that clung to it's branches. It, as well as others, wither into skeletons during this season. Sticks reaching for the sky in protest, the garments that it had been garbed within, laying scattered among it's feet, curled up and decaying.
Yet, the man resigned himself to his fate. It was the natural order of things after all. And it would be difficult to appreciate summers without the contrast of winter. For as he was well aware, it is the pain that makes pleasure all that much more meaningful.
And he was in pain. His head throbbed, whether it be from the fumes in the room he was in, or caused by the cigar he had smoked a short while ago. His stomach gently growled, the suppression of hunger was something he had grown used to.
For he was unable to find much joy in food. It seemed to him that he has tasted all that life had to offer and he could not find any contentment or surprises that he could lavish his taste buds with.
Music, also, sparkled much less brightly than it once had for him. His ears seemed to strip a melody of it's magic, leaving only a husk in it's place that shuffled reluctantly into his heart.
An emptiness enveloped him, as he sat in his moon chair, clinging to the illusion of the warm embrace that it offered. Yet, his soul knew that it was not being comforted, or given what it needed.
He sighed, letting a soft gust of air escape his lips. There was not much that could cheer him up at this point. He knew the hurt that held a fierce grip upon his soul, it's claws digging ever that much deeper whenever he should ruminate upon it.
The one thing that he feared most, was losing his ability to love again. To feel and connect with the passion he once had. For he had been such a man, kind, gentle and in love with life, yet, as he sat alone, his heart grew heavier with each passing moment.
His thoughts cried out in silent agony, as if they were beggers in ragged clothing with empty hats reaching towards him. He could not bear the sight of them. Tears threatened to fill his eyes as he forced himself to look away, feeling shame as he did so.
The man sat in his bedroom with bare feet rubbing lightly on the carpet. Hair, wet from a shower that he didn't really need but took anyways, anything that would help distract him often became solicited and welcome diversions.
Anything to keep from feeling this pain.
The man sat. Typing on his laptop.
Not knowing what he should do next.
