Maybe words?
Close your eyes (the world spins beneath you, around you, a place.) Open them (a different place, no fade, no transition, white to black and white again, somewhere and somewhen else...)
Blink.
He keeps returning here (not by choice, he doesn't choose, drifting, adrift, moving and moved.) Dirt and ash in equal measure, the charred blackened bones of wood stretching bare fingers upwards from growth that crawls and creeps up the broken ribs of some forgotten structure. The wood was square, post and plank, once, beneath the weather and fire blunted edges.
He doesn't remember it. It means nothing to him (lies.) He can remember it, but it's nothing like what he remembers (truth.) Flat and distant, he can dredge forth images of a house (bare lines sketching the hint of walls) and a family (mother, father, child... children? caricature impressions superimposed over curling vines and scorched earth.)
He doesn't know them (lies.) He doesn't remember them (except when he does.) He doesn't know why he can't see past them (there's a point where the world stops and he began and before that there is nothing.) He doesn't know why he keeps returning to it (truth and lies, intermingled, until it's all truth and all lies, black is white and white is black, and it's all so meaningless and that is the final truth.)
There are, if he focuses, broken metal bomb shards underneath the grass, peeking through the vines and dirt and the blasted bits of earth heap in man made patterns. The whole countryside is like that and he doesn't know when it happened (truth, he blinked and it was gone, only the faded remnant of chaos and fire and static bodies flickering like flame cast shadows behind his eyes.)
He doesn't know why he keeps coming back here. He closes his eyes (the world spins) and is gone.
Prompt - "Home". Alaric, circa 350-360KJ or so (1950's)