The world is a beautiful place. From the inside of my window I study it. The bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds that move gently across the sky. The grass contrasts greatly with the shores and waves of the small lake. The trees that border the distance are losing their leaves slowly. The small things are very interesting to notice. Each year the trees spend less and less time turning beautiful colors of orange and brown and simply die. In my own over-analytical way, this could be a metaphor.
But nature doesn't do metaphors.
Nature just does what it does.
Perhaps it's more coincidentally symbolic.
You hear such awful things about the people and the state of our world, but you can't see it from up here. Not until you notice autumn fading away. The joy that was raking up leaves into a big pile and diving in is slowly fading away. Fall becomes either too hot or too cold each day, there is no more careful in-between.
Just one moment.
They say a story can be drawn from anywhere, any elements you can mash together.
But why not all the ones currently working?
A lone man walking a country road, the middle of a dying fall, in the middle of a dying world.
Is he running away from something?
Is he running towards something?In my mind that story writes itself. Perhaps he alone is going to answer nature's cry.
