The world has not been kind to this man. He has seen all he cares for die, withered in hospitals and sprawled limply on living room floors. Through this, he barely endures.
The past is all he knows now, all he sees. He once hoped for the future, but now he hopes only for the present -- that he will exist in this moment. And in this moment, all that he is has passed.
His eyelids close softly, and he feels weightless. The eyes of those once living flash before him. He knows them each, can connect them to specific aches in his chest. Today was his wife's birthday.
His limp body sits in the recliner for almost a week before it is discovered.
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A middle-aged man recalls his childhood pet briefly as he purchases a new dog for his daughter. She is growing so old and wise -- soon college, he thinks, then anywhere.
The man lives long enough to see his daughter become a surgeon. He does not know how many lives she has saved, but he feels her accomplishments. Through her, he succeeds.
He dies in an operating room as his daughter waits outside.
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Passage is more than every image depicted above, and the experience of Passage cannot be adequately verbalized. You must play it and understand it to grasp the enormity and clarity of its message. But once you do, you will feel something: maybe a hopeless or bleak sense of station, maybe a feeling of utter contentment. Either way, you will not leave unchallenged.
Passage is a memento mori. It exists as a reminder of your own mortality, but also of life. Play it and see for yourself.
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