So he sat, at the end of a path that disappeared into the sun. The wind hushed through the field to his east, combing the high grasses in intricate, swirling patterns. A small finch chirped at him from above. He glanced up, and it chirped again before leaping into the wind and riding it into the forest.
He stood, brushing the small pebbles from his palm. This sun-spotted path would lead him somewhere, would turn and meander in the way that dirt paths do, toward a place unknown to him. He would take a step and then another, and another, and perhaps find the end of this feeling. At the end of the path he would cry out–from somewhere primal, at whatever he still carried, at whatever faced him. And then he would follow the wind somewhere else, toward his future and away from his past.