ʙᴜʟʟᴇᴛᴘʀᴏᴏғ│ᴛᴋ [complete]

ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

He opened his eyes to darkness. Nothing stirred in the night. No sounds were heard. All there was to do was wait.

Slowly but surely, the shadows withdrew, replaced by stretches of green and blue.

Grass.

Sky.

High above him, a whiteness that did not blind him.

Describe what you feel, a voice said. He could not tell where it came from.

Warmth.

Good. Anything else?

He heard birds and wondered why he had not noticed their songs earlier.

Chirps.

Keep going.

He saw a tree which had not been there a moment ago. He walked toward its shade and sat on a chair. He did not question whose chair it was, nor what it was doing here. Next to the chair, on the ground, a blue chequered cotton mat. Settled on top of it, a wicker picnic basket.

He did not open it. He did not wonder what was inside.

He stayed motionless for some time, but nothing changed around him. And nothing new appeared.

The voice was keeping quiet for now, so he got up and walked around the tree. Placing his hand on the bark, he let his fingers roam over the trunk.

A word came to him.

Rough.

Good, the voice answered.

He crouched and allowed the grass to tickle his palm until the light dimmed and he was left to wait in the dark.

When the whiteness returned, the lawn was gone, replaced by a shimmering field that sparkled every now and then. He walked closer and saw specks of colours floating on its surface.

Lilies.

The voice said nothing.

He watched the flowers blossom under the warmth of the sun above.

Lilies.

Lilies are.

What are lilies? The voice finally asked.

Pretty.

He questioned where the word came from. He also wondered about its meaning and why he had used it to describe the aquatic herb when he could have said "rhizomatous flowering plants" instead.

What is pretty?

He did not know if this was the voice talking, or himself. He, too, pondered what pretty was. It was not warmth, nor cold. It was neither sound nor silence. It was not a physical sensation such as the ones he could pick up through his sensory channels.

Which meant pretty was something beyond the physical realm.

What is beyond the physical realm?

He did not know. He had reached the limit of his cognition.

Darkness washed the water lilies away.

He waited.

The tree returned, its shade just as inviting as he remembered. He went to sit on the chair, taking note of the presence of a second chair nearby. The chequered cloth was spread on top of the grass, a picnic basket in its middle.