2004-07-27

Smoked Glass Revived

A tree stands in the midst of a dark forest and covered by the night mist. The dust on the leaves collect on the dew drops, and the water trickles down onto the bark. There is soft grass that surrounds the gnarled and twisted roots. The babble of the brook calms the two youths as they sit and contemplate their pathos...a very odd pathos.

The leaves swirl by in the still night, and the hoot of an owl is heard echoing in the distance. Let us forget reality, pain, and anything else that drowns our hearts in sorrow. Does the snow not melt on the rich man's window as it does the poor man's? Yes, that is what Thoreau said. Hold my hand as I walk through the forest, and you will see that there is nothing to be afraid of. Life shouldn't be seen as such a vast and dark ocean, but a clear lake that stands in the middle of a canopied jungle, splashed with the sunshine's gold. Not so intimidating is it?

The reader walks once more, and the writer writes, and their story is written in gold dust and seen through the smokey glass of imprisonment...they cannot be trapped forever, for glass is fragile, and it will one day break.

aeka at 7:25 a.m.