He had wakened from a cloud-dream, a slumber self-induced, that had taken him through countless years. A self-induced slumber, a cloud of his own creation, built in order to withdraw from the living that he’d decided hurt too much to face. The cloud was safe. But life lives poorly at best, viewed and lived through dark vapors.
Still he carried on, still he assayed to live, forgetting the spell he had cast upon himself; held in perpetuity by his blaming the cloud on others.
Then one day he found a magic. It thrilled him. It sent joy coursing through him. He saw that there was a cloud. He saw it was not him. That he had drawn it close about as a cloak against feeling. The spell-induced cloud was suddenly lighter. He saw through it. Saw it for the lie that it was. And he saw the world differently. He was part of it. No – the world was a part of him.