A Peaceful Stroll at Dusk

The time had very nearly arrived, so he strolled out of the house, trembling fingers fumbling slightly as he attempted to slip the key into its lock, a key he soon buried in the stipulated location with the same fingers that again fumbled a thin layer of soil over the steel, to be covered up by the flower pot, all as neatly written, all according to plan, and once he was finished, the time had already approached far closer than expected, as if it had snuck up on him from behind, and he wondered briefly—if the clumsiness of his tense hands and their awkward actions, intent on consuming more time than usual, were down to nerves and nerves alone, or if the rebellious separatists in his subconscious were simply making their presence known—as he stepped without the confines of his property and into the great beyond, though calling it that was an exaggeration, because the city remained as bleak and mundane on this special day as it always was, a monotonous landscape of dull grey, further masked by the layers of smog, even at this magical hour of dusk, when the sky should be vivid with myriad shades of refracted light as the colours of nature change shifts in anticipation of darkness’ fall, when the Moon should be preparing itself for the majestic entry masked in glory, but enough about the city, he had anticipated these problems, and the great beyond was more than a physical location, anyway, for it represented potential, possibilities, a daring next phase, concepts that defy material confines, but a location was part of it, and there was one he had in mind.

To savour the city was also part of it, for he didn’t hate the city as much as he hated what it represented, that being the opposite of a great beyond, a comfort zone he wanted badly to leave behind yet couldn’t bring himself to the exit door of, and he hated that it was only on this momentous occasion that he could summon the willpower to go through that door, but as he had told himself before, it was only fair to give it a chance, and so he walked down the pavement, backpack heavy on his shoulders, yet his footsteps quickened their pace, for though his matters were well-organised, time was catching up like an ominous, looming threat to soon breathe down his neck, yet he knew time only posed a threat in his head, as it does for us all, for we’re all familiar with the movements, nature, and the many rules of time, though presently three primary features concerned him—(a) time has no knife to wave around, no hands to strangle with, and it is only in our moments of weakness or tribulation or anxiety or unfortunate misalignment of circumstance that we tend to hand it those tools and bare it our necks, (b) time is inaccurate, unpredictable, and count though you may each second of every day, attempting to keep track of its traversal isn’t merely folly, but dangerous, and lastly, (c) time is cruel and has no mercy—and so he decided to breathe, slowing down, and savour the remainder of this walk, an act of defiance, a fist waved at the time stalking him from behind, for it would be a waste not to enjoy this journey, this rite of literal passage to the great beyond, be it in the city—as he left the grey behind along with the many colossal constructs that towered above him, to be gradually replaced by more modest homes and the comforting familiarity of humble human inhabitancy uncontaminated by excess and artificial flamboyance, while the vibrant spectrum of dusk too continued its course into the near-black blue of quiet midnight—or the country, as he continued through the suburbs and arrived finally in a land occupied not by human interference but claimed entirely by nature, or held onto desperately by the fingertips, rather, for he was certain that in this day and age, the meddling nuisance of human interference simply couldn’t be far away, and for a moment he nearly, perhaps slightly, even, slipped into gratitude that he had given the city a chance, that the city he had just departed remained so nearby such a place that he could reach it on foot by the time the colours had withdrawn from the sky, to be replaced by just one and the twinkling of stars, but whatever gratitude surfaced was soon drowned out by the tantalising thought of his journey’s end being within reach.

He turned his wrist and its watch till the glass met dim moonlight, sighing gently in relief—for everything was perfect, he was on track, and everything was going according to plan, time, at the moment, nowhere to be seen—so onward he wandered, venturing into a thick wood, traipsing over teeming roots, happy with his plan, happy with the plan he planned, happy with the plan he had planned, and then he caught himself, deciding happiness wasn’t the emotion he should be using to suppress the thoughts he feared a confrontation with, one of them being that he now felt utterly helpless, for his plan had proved sufficiently elaborate in helping him get to this point, but there was one critical weakness it failed to address, which was the doubts, and the doubts emerged with vehemence as he trudged ever-closer to his goal, still plaguing him once that goal was accomplished and he arrived, all according to plan, in the smallest of clearings (barely even a clearing, really, and more of a tiny patch of grass, still secluded from what faint celestial illumination broke through the leaves overhead), but the goal was no longer in sight, long ago obscured by the dreadful all-smothering fog that is doubt, and time was no longer the enemy, but the uncertainties that, one by one, occupied his mind—he should’ve just stayed in his house the whole time, done everything there, or at least stuck to the city, what on earth was he thinking coming out this far—yet so effective was the plan and so strictly had he been conditioned that he slowly, mechanically, numbly carried out its next steps, sitting down on the roots of a great tree, though his presence was absent, sliding the backpack off his shoulders, glazed eyes fixated on infinite dark beyond impenetrable wood, robotically pulling out his phone and sending the necessary texts, that he had saved for quite a while, and, lastly, having a quick look through his bag at the sentimental odds and ends he had brought along, and this was when his presence returned, albeit now utterly under doubt’s control, as did the trembling of his fingers, and a tensing of his shoulders, for that final step was merely the last of the present, and the time—dreaded time, once again emerging from the shadows, stepping into the fray, open palm extended for the knife to be used in the stabbing, for the pistol to deliver the coup de grâce—to lay to rest the plan and take that first step into the great beyond had come, but the plan, his wonderful plan, had failed to come to fruition, and its remains still fell apart with every passing second, as his cold hands dug through his belongings for the one item he needed most, no longer shivering slightly like they were at dusk but quivering with ferocity, finding only the warm tears that spilled onto his forearm and streamed down to his fingertips, and, having given up, just not in the way he foresaw, he pushed the bag aside, leaned back onto the tree trunk, and cried.