maybe leaving the repressive iron-wrought gates would have been a much happier experience. instead, he found stepping through them and taking his place, like many others before him, made returning through the portals very inviting.
he thought he knew he was finally shedding old skins. old skins that would finally crumble and dissolve into nothingness, and leave them commited to a stale and distant memory. but it was this nothingness that he desired; every waking moment he was unsure whether his commitment was a dream or a memory. nevertheless it did not matter anymore. to him it was all a congealed mass of inconsequence.
and maybe the experience was like walking through the garden, somewhere. gallant knights stiff as pieces on chessboards playing tactically at every glide of their insteps. chromatic shades of extraneous stalks that stand, maybe too delicately, waltzing and flowing as the susurrus of the wind. admist the excitable staccato of starry-eyed oglers, they, came out to play.
maybe the knights took off their gauntlet and extended a hand; contemplation by nudging, stroking even. and maybe the kaleidoscopic hues were responsive, taking their invitation by shedding their thorns. maybe. and maybe they were held in a waltz that entwined their kismetic tapestries, merging their fabric of reality into one.
and the experience was a reconnaisance of possibities for them; but they never materialised. thorns can only come off when soaked in boiling water. and when you do that, the flowers die. maybe he felt sorry for them. their gauntlets were kept on, postures stiff as ever in a pretty show to other knights. maybe he was. but maybe, it didn't even matter to him that he was.