The search had so far been his private luxury. His life might not have had a point, but it had a career, a family, some norms he had abided by, some carefully constructed myths which he lived by, some limits and a slow movement in a certain direction. Even while he searched for this woman or whatever he had seen or felt, he went to office, he caressed his wife, he chimed his regular words to his friends and family, he met expectations – his life was still in the regular orbit it had followed so far. This trajectory was almost pre-ordained during his childhood, and save for some itsy bitsy random perturbations, his life had moved along this path over the last thirty or so years, and over the three or so continents. This sameness defined him, and gave him comfort.
But now that he has had this brush with actually finding the point of his life – he is in danger of being thrown out of the orbit. He knows that he probably could not live the same life any longer, if he had found her. But what was there beyond the orbit? What did it mean to have no trajectory?
What is there beyond the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? And, what do you do with the pot, especially after it kills all you have been so far?