He walked on for what seemed hours, and thought that he had walked for days with his shadow, and his companion. He had thought of everything and all things within these hours in which he walked, without a sense of purpose, haste, or direction. He thought of the colors of the trees, their fiery presence sitting above their weather-beaten trunks and bark; the grass, of how it was so green with envy, yet all around, the seasons changing brought a somber silence to the land. It was quiet for an afternoon such as this, so quiet that it almost bothered him; but it did not. The sky wasn't clear, nor cloudy, but had the perception that a paint bruch of white had danced upon its surface, creating clouds that were whisked upon by the winds in the sky, in various shapes and forms, for all to be hold and see. There were streaks, blots, and bulges held in the sky, all of the pure color of white, that showed that the sky did hold an object one could not touch: it was the canvas of an artist, the ceiling of a cathedral, whose finish had been painted upon by the heavens themselves. He stopped a moment, and said to his friend, who was not there to hear: "I wish all days were like today." He gazed at the lake beside him, little waves of water created by the swimming fish who so stealthily swum beneath the surface, creating an illusion to those watching, the light reflecting into their eyes. He gazed upon the lake for some time, and could not describe its beauty. "It's just a lake, a pool of water," he said, explaining, "but there are so many things about this like that one could not begin to tell anyone of its beauty, of its serenity, of its calm, and the its effect upon the land." He walked from the shore of the lake and continued upon his beaten path made his by time, and again wondered what time it was.
The sun, still rising, had even yet to show its light to all.
24 December 2004
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