He felt the cool breeze whispering to the flattened lapels of his worn jacket, lifting them slightly, snaking underneath and leaving his presence. Arthur brought the smoldering remains of his cigarette to his lips, fingers chapped against the dry air, and took in a drag; the smoke was strangely warm and tickled his tongue while it slipped past and took up residence in his throat.
Arthur blew out the smoke slowly, looking for meaning in the wispy shapes and finding nothing substantial. He stood on his tiny wooden porch, one foot crossed casually over the other, leaning slightly on the pillar. The home was nothing special- peeling blue-grey siding; dark brown shingles, some missing; a small front yard, if it could be considered a yard at all. Straggly grass trying to live through the frost that had shown up in the early morning. A single window in the top-most floor looked out, lonely and clear and abused.
A book lay at his feet, a ghost of insight into his mind. The front cover was curled slightly, the binding as creased and cracked as an old man's face when broken in a smile. Scribbling could be seen on the top of the inside cover, a hasty scrawl - an inscription.
"I guess it's time to leave..," thought the young man. A barrage of memories threatened to take over his mind, but he forced them back, willing them to wait until he had collected his mind and his belongings. Going inside, he returned only a few moments later with a small knapsack slung over his right shoulder. He bent down and picked up the book, fingering the worn edges and the dog-eared pages. It had obviously been a favourite of someone's. A pencil was produced, and a few words were written on the inside cover, under the first hand-written note. The book left Arthur's hands slightly hesitantly; in the end, its final resting place was in the rusted metal post box that was mounted near the front door.
Another cigarette was lit, another deep inhalation of the smoky addiction, a burst in the dam where the memories had sat, compiling and accumulating, now free to wash over the mind like a desert rain. Arthur was hardly aware of where his feet were taking him, only knowing that he was leaving because he knew it was time. He briefly thought of existentialism, but pushed the notion away in order to let the tempest of his reminiscing be first and foremost.
Another exhale, searching for signs in the swirling fog that left his mouth, a mixture of breath and smoke, as meaningful and friendly as an empty room.
'Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?'