I am once again sobered by the greatness of the world

I feigned interest for nearly fifty minutes before the constriction in my chest closed my airway and forced me to emit a short, gutteral, spasmatic grunt, much like the call of a bull elk upon returning to his favorite grazing pasture, only to find a large ring of condominiums. Pleasantly divided with perfectly symmetrical asphalt roads, studded with immature, transplanted oaks and hemlocks; more than vaguely reminiscent of the young families which will soon habitate this formerly serene pasture. Immature, transplanted.
"What was that?" My none too observant table-mate asked, before, without further delay, returning to the topic of "conversation."
My mind drifted backwards, so few days. A lifetime of silence.
A lifetime born, and lived in these few days.
I remember the sounds; the rough slaps of the raindrops on the grey roadways, the dull scratch of the burly chested, masculine robins, as they strut around the dull metallic rim of the light posts.
The clouds running a cold fingertip over the feminine curves of the green mountains, their pure tips, daring the struggling sun to melt their soft, flowing comforter of snow.
I remember the look, the feeling, the constriction in my chest, the peace.
I remember her eyes.
I remember the absolute certainty, no metaphysical argument, no philosophical struggle of ideals or of reality. Just certainty.
The pure, raw visceral certainty of what I've always known;
of what I had just understood.
All qualms of cyclical reality, and philosophics melt away, and I simply knew, and I had always known.
The realization had permeated through my every cell, my every memory, like the soft fingers of dye meandering through the very heart of the clear translucent, and now, evanescent waters of my heart. My soul.
This is a feeling like death, a sweet release, so absolute, so terrifyingly abrupt, sudden, and complete.
And I knew...I knew.
The bull moose is startled by the sound of a minivan, carrying the transplanted young family to their new home, their new life, where the past can be forgotten, and the future be sown along the symmetrical streets, below the hemlock and oak.
He turns his great head, his velvet antlers towards the light woods, the droplets of sun, falling like raindrops through the outstretched leaves of the gnarled, mighty oaks.
And I am with him.
I split the check without protest, though I had only one drink, stood up and walked along the soft grass of the short carpet, through the glass doors, and into the wind splayed downpour,
teardrops of rain streaming down the lightly tinted doors, running off the end of the large brass nose.
I walk slowly; listening to the rough slap of the raindrops,
on the grey roadway.