The Age of Forgotten Dreams

“How do you overcome your demons?”, he asked, trembling as he spoke, full of nausea and dread to the brim. His eyelids twitched slightly, dark circles had developed under his eyes, signs of profound anxiety, fear, anguish, and suffering were displayed in fearsome intensity in his countenance.

He clutched and leaned on a nearby tree in wild apprehension, the bark crumbling under his nails, lodging splinters in them, as he looked at the man standing next to him. Looking as though he belonged in morgue, his pale face displayed a deathly sickliness, as though despair and suffering had seeped so deeply into his being, had sunk their teeth so deeply into his soul, that a beautiful thought, a holy word, were merely forgotten memories for him, hardly recognizable figments of a seemingly nonexistent past.

The man standing next to him uttered not a single word. He stood, strong, resolved, proud, and stared ahead with steady determination. After a while, he turned his head toward the man who had addressed him… He said nothing, but smiled kindly and sympathetically, as though he knew everything his companion was dealing with, all of the demons and torments which tortured his soul.

It was winter, and the snow was falling more violently than before, swirling in chaotic madness from hail to snow, and back again. Nothing moved, there were no woodland creatures about, nor was there a single leaf on the trees about them. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.