He walks through the church grounds. The graveyard shifts through time. There was never anything to see through the church window beside the empty pub. There is a voice in his head telling him to look into the broken mirror in the toilet to see something beyond seeing. Pinned to the cross, Christ saw it.
A grey cat stretches out on the carpet underneath a bush who’s shadow dances on the wall. There is a clock that stands still. He tries to remember a time before the world became small and full of petty tyrants. His eyes flicker with questions.
He knows there are no easy answers inside his head. He sits in his lounge chair. The sun peeks over his shoulder illuminating his foolishness to believe he could find all the answers in old books no one cares to read anymore. He has spent a dozen seasons in Hell. Stacked up against nothing and eternity in his cell.
He watches the sun turn black against a sea of green.
A boy walks through the Pine Barrens transitioning between the texts of previous centuries and undiscovered country. He searches for a better way to saturate his mind with ideas. He wants to peek behind the veil but the chains of raw reality are too tight. He tries not to let the ugliness beat out the beauty.
In his confusion, he denies reality and then substitutes it with his own feelings, judgments, and desires. He opens the door and sees the world as he thinks it should be, and not for what it is.
In short, he chooses to live in a Hell of his own creation, a socially acceptable form of insanity these days.