An excerpt

I allowed the soft, blissful rhythms of the song to wash over me as I approached a comfortable posture and watched outside the window. I could sense the urgency of the wind to force its way inside; I let it brush past me. The dry patches of land were relegated to a brief nothingness as I fixed my gaze on the setting sun, glowing and golden, as the music went on and on. Everything lost its significance and flashed past before my eyes, but the sun stood its stead. I sought bliss, I sought peace then. The yellow, tepid warmth of that moment insinuated deep into the inner recesses of my mind; sought an endless refuge there, as I sat observing at nothing—mindlessly, thoughtlessly, aimlessly. 

In the years to come, the swells of the very song would make me revisit that scene, as if the present around me would not endure when the same old warmth would seep out of my own existence. But the memory would contort. The bliss would masquerade as sorrow; the tepidity as coldness. The once-gentle brushes of the wind would throttle me now; and the yellow, golden brilliance would give in to darkness and greyness. The happy, little face of mine would transform into a grotesque image of crying and weeping, as if from an incurable malady of the kind that resides within and eats one inside out. I would always be left to wonder which among those innocent objects of that fleeting moment were my inevitable nemesis. If I had known the accursed object, could I have fought to eliminate it? Could I have been different?