He had not taken the pills, now, for four weeks. The Stirrings had returned,
and he felt a little guilty and embarrassed about the pleasurable dreams that came to him as he slept.
But he knew he couldn’t go back to the world of no feelings that he had lived in so long.
And his new, heightened feelings permeated a greater realm than simply his sleep.
Though he knew that his failure to take the pills accounted for some of it, he thought that the feelings came also from the memories.
Now he could see all of the colors; and he could keep them, too, so that the trees and grass and bushes stayed green in his vision.
Gabriel’s rosy cheeks stayed pink, even when he slept. And apples were always, always red.
Now, through the memories, he had seen oceans and mountain lakes and streams that gurgled through woods;
and now he saw the familiar wide river beside the path differently.
He saw all of the light and color and history it contained and carried in its slow-moving water;
and he knew that there was an Elsewhere from which it came, and an Elsewhere to which it was going.
On this unexpected, casual holiday he felt happy, as he always had on holidays; but with a deeper happiness than ever before.
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