There’s something called obsession, and by all accounts it is “unhealthy”.
His fleeting glimpse of a lone dancer, in a season past, will not fade. Instead, it has sprouted within him, a seedling spreading indelible branches into many directions.
On one of these possible paths, he sees himself returning to the scene, making improbable enquiries as to who she may be, when she might reappear, so that he may perhaps experience the vision once again. On another, he wonders what he really has seen, and the whys of its powerful effect. It has assumed the form of a bright filament of spirit within his mind.
He’s painted this, unwittingly, with his own brushstrokes, like a mad Van Gogh, and can’t tear himself away from the image.
This descent has taken him too far, and he tells himself that he must “come back”, for his daily life now seems dreamlike, and his artwork the reality to which he is drawn.
“What now is my path?” He thinks.