It was that day, the one he looked back on it all. From the luxury of age, distance, and a broken heart, the angry, frustrated, misunderstood music he had lived by went mute. It didn't matter anymore. He saw what had been for the dream it was. Instead, he was grateful for the life he had lived. Simple as that. And the moment took on the pleasing distance of a drama he watched as a spectator. He saw himself there, riding off into the sunset he had made for himself, his desires fulfilled in way that he had failed to imagine and to appreciate -- or even see -- before. It was the page in the book that pointed to his work. The page, the entire page, held him in its embrace. He felt seen and heard and acknowledged. That was what he had been waiting for, though he did not know it at the time. Snapped to attention, weak in the knees, feeling a bit the fool for being so blind, he was free at last.
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