He was in comfortable loose-fitting clothing, standing in the middle of a field

a temporary (but liveable) shelter lay around him, creating a small whirlpool in the untamed grass. the grass was thick, and threatened to swallow the shelter’s many uneven supports. It has been rebuilt no less than four times, and he realized now that a fifth attempt must be made to repair the regular damage done by sleeping, eating, and ,(to use the term loosely), living.

The only permanent fixture was a massive slingshot in the center of the field. It probably had not always been a slingshot, the arms were uneven, and it looked as if it had a shape of its own that had been destroyed by its new use. He had once tried to dig it up, and maybe find out what the damn thing was. The base, however, seemed to plunge miles into the ground, and he had become weak after a few minutes of clawing at the dirt around it.

as the wind began to blow, the field turned into a green fluid mass froming a wave that capsised the shelter for good.

He let a pleasant shiver run through his body, looked around to remind himself that he was alone, and shivered a few more times for fun.

Most days, and most of the hours of most days, he spent his time burrowing his way through the grass, trying to explore the field’s limits without breaking them. sometimes he did it only to feel the strands of grass press against his body. Sometimes he let himself stay pressed against the same patch of grass for a whole day.

There were books there to read. Before, he had to carry them constantly, but now they sat in the shelter. Each one was damaged just as any delicate object can be damaged by an owner who cares, but has had to care about his own survival more.

He  read almost daily. Some of his books were manuals for appliances he did not have (and was quite certain he would never see again). Some were novels so poorly written he could only get through a few chapters at a time. He eventually memorized the text, so reading had become a ritualistic reminder that other consciousnesses had existed at some point in some place. It was always boring but he still read them again and again because at least it was an outside voice, at least it’s something that was not and not field.

He sometimes wondered if he reads the books enough and explores the field enough, maybe the books and the field will eventually become a part of him and he will be alone again. But these thoughts were rare and dismissed as irrational (even though he had a sneaking suspicion that dividing things into rational and irrational was something neither he nor the field cared about anymore)

When he dd not want to remind himself about not being a field, humanity, consciousness, state of being etc etc etc. he spent his time just looking. He examined the bark of the surrounding trees, the changes in the sky, and the slowly dwindling pile of rocks in the rotten crate. The slowly dwindling pile was a serious problem, so he used a very concerned face when he chose to look at it. Sometimes he went into the woods to collect mores stones, sometimes he found neat piles of them in small whirlpools deep in the grass. When he found these he picked them up quickly while using the same concerned expression in case someone else had placed them there.

That was another odd quirk he couldn’t explain. Why did he even use expressions anymore? No one could see him. There was no one to comfort his concerns, or to warn with a concerned glance, or to even be concerned about, but when his gaze drifted back to the shallow pile of rocks he let his forehead wrinkle and the corners of his mouth turn slightly down.

It was more fun to do than nothing. He needed to make it fun otherwise he might decide to let himself try nothing, and then what would happen?    

He had no idea, but some voice at the back of his mind said this is a dangerous (and probably difficult) train of thought that should be allowed to crash before going much further.

To distract himself he walked back to the slingshot. He had been traveling in the forest around this field for a long time. Back then he hid from the sunlight, foregoing warmth and sight for the relative safety of the darkness.

He pulled back the slingshot slowly. Pausing to scratch his nose where the sun had made it peel.

He had wandered into this field half-blinded by the daylight. Frightened, he had begun to franticly burrow into the grass. At that point he did not know or care what the field was, only that he could hide in it. Disoriented and upset, he fled in random patterns, eventually running head first into the slingshot.  

The rubber band was comically large, he wondered quickly how one might manufacture a rubber band this big and who would have devoted their life to the production of such a thing, but quickly dismissed the thought as he let go. The rock soared over the field, making a familiar thump as it hit the grass

He reloaded it

the same thump

he reloaded it again

He appreciated the slingshot as he used it. After all it deserved some thanks for his new life. What he was doing before in the woods, that was survival, that was the dark point there. But now he has grass, and the slingshot, and light to read books and look at things with.

He fired a rock to emphasise each of his blessings as he thought of of them. He was slightly out of breath and tired now.

The animals! That was the other thing he had discovered with the slingshot. After finding the crate of stones, (only a bit empty at that point), he figured it could be used as a wepon. How wonderful life became after that! Instead of hiding in rotten logs, and covering himself in mud to keep hidden he could fire round after round of stones into the forest’s edge. He often went back to pick them up, from time to time finding small animals he had hit days earlier. When the bodies weren’t too rotten he ate them and felt very good about the direction his life was taking.

He did not feel very good about the direction his life was taking this very second. This very second he was beginning to take all his gifts for granted, slipping into a kind of bored contentment. This would not do. He told himself he should remember his ecstatic gratitude when he began to live here, and what more could he want? Surely didn’t think he deserved more, the slingshot was already blessing enough with the sun and freedom it brought. He put a beaming smile on his face so he could show his appreciation, but there was no one to show, and nothing to smile about as the sun had gone down while he tried to remember how much he loved it.