The hours passed, the minutes, the seconds; time passed as he stood there, being shown his every moment that he had experienced. The mirrors were He did not care to look away, for he knew that a reminiscing session was good for a person every once in a while, and he had not done so for a while. He smiled upon his triumphs, his losses, his rises and falls, and he didn't care to look away from any of them, no regret felt for actions done or sentences vocalized. The mirrors, polished to perfection, they could have reflected the light from a candle and made it look like cooking fire; they could have reflected the light of an open fire, and made it look like the sun. These mirrors having not faced a being like this before began to feel the pressure as they had never felt before. These mirrors had always conquered any foe set before them, bringing them to their knees, hearing their pitiful cries to cease and desist, showing their prey their past, their present, their soul. Each mirror began to crack, to shatter, to break; the image within each one could be seen no more for the many cracks within each mirror mirrored another image, and so there were thousands upon thousands of images being shown, all miniscule in size, and could not be seen any more by their prey. The glass, in all of its glory, burst from its frame like a snowball hitting a wall; the glass flew every which way, none of it harmful, as the smallest pieces fell from their highest points in the sky and gave the illusion of snow, of snow in a place it had never snowed before. The wood fell back into the ground as the trees became visible once more. The path appeared again as the moon showered its rays upon the ground, creating a patchwork of trees upon the path as they moon broke through and held back by the tent of leaves. His shadow returned to him, as his companion appeared at his side, though invisible to everyone and all she was. They walked again in silence for some time as he turned over in his mind the event that had just occurred. �It�s only an obstacle,� he said, speaking to the flowers, the trees, the grass, �a bump on the journey to the top of a mountain, a hill of no consequence, no matter where it is found.� He pulled out something from his pocket, a sack; a brown ordinary sack that could be found wherever you go. It had no special qualities, but the red tie that held it close. He gently pulled one end to upon, and began to munch on the things contained within the bag. He threw one to a squirrel, who hastily picked it up and returned to his house within a dying tree, eyeing this stranger carefully, making sure he was not looking as he feasted upon this find.
He continued along this path, eating, not knowing what to expect next.
29 December 2004
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