This is a little something I just wrote.
The wind blew gently against the trees and the rocks. The needles of the majestic, towering pine trees rustled together as if laughing. But the rustling was calm and the laughing seemed destined to evanesce. And yet it still had the power to halt the rocks that heard the laughter. It was the type of sound that drew you into itself, and made you one with the world. The world that rippled like the water in a lake. These ripples glided across the water, starting out hopeful, gaining strength, and then reaching their greatest heights. And then as they traveled closer to shore, they lowered and finally disappeared, and returned to the world that they had emanated from. The ripples were not orderly, they were even at times chaotic, but they were at peace with the world; at least in the beginning and in the end. Everything was at peace with the world. All was right with the world. The trees laughed, the rocks stood still, and the ripples in the lake rose and fell.
But it never lasted indefinetely. The peace would be disrupted. It was inevitable. This inevitability was one of the ultimate forces that drove the world. It could be interrupted by anything, even the blink of an eye. It didnt even need the blink of an eye. All it really needed was for the mind to snap out of the harmony and return to the chaos of life. It happened all too often. And it annoyed me.
I had been sitting on a bench facing the lake. Sitting beside me was an old man of possibly Asian decent, and possibly derelict. He was bundled up in blankets and jackets quite heavily, yet it wasnt very cold. His hair, both facial and scalp, was gray; the type of gray that you see in the dreary sky after its been raining for a week and then shake you fist at it and shout curses at it. Over the majority of his head was a strange furry cap, similar to those ones found in northern Europe. His moustache resembled to opposite, horizontal shoots of bamboo. They were long, drooping at the ends, and had occasional branches spouting off in different directions. The old man also had a beard to be reckoned with. It was long and thin, starting just from his chin and ending in some unknown place within his bundles. From what I could see, it would seem like an ideal place to hide a sword.
We were sitting on that old wooden bench facing the cool, tranquil, life-filled waters of the lake. On the left of us was a pine forest and to the right were two paths a path extending around the lake and a path leading back to the city. We were sitting only a foot away from the lake. I could easily see the creatures that dwelled below the waters surface. Where we sat, there was no shore, rather a small cliff from the perspective of a smaller organism. Because of this, there was no real shore where we were sitting, just another part of the actual lake. A little ways out was a small patch of land covered in reeds and tall grass and small trees.
In the midst of the laughing pines, I heard the cries of birth. I peered at it and saw an eagle perched above its nest in a tall old oak. The chicks bawled incessantly and reached their heads up blindly, hoping to be the first to be fed by their parent. The eagle put its great curved beak over the nearest chick and regurgitated a fish into its offsprings mouth. The chick lowered its head and sat there digesting the meal, grateful of having it, but hungry for more. Their eyes were barely opened, and they could not see the world that they were to live and eventually die in.
Closer to me was a family of ducks. On the water they sat, gliding across the lake quacking fondly to each other. Behind the mother and father ducks were half a dozen baby ducks. The ducklings followed their parents, confident that they would protect and provide for them. There would be a day when the ducklings would have to finally separate from there parents. But that day was not now. At the moment, the ducklings were content with their dependency. And so, the family glided on, across the lake and through the ripples of the lake.
On one of the trees growing on the patch of land in the lake was perched a kingfisher. It stood there on the highest branch of its tree. It raised its head proudly and sang its song. It reverberated throughout the land like the trumpets of the highest court of the highest king. The kingfisher ceased and looked down into the water with menacing eyes. They narrowed, and in a great flash of blue and white, it dived down and snatched a small fish. The kingfisher flew back to its branch, its quarry trapped between its beak. The fish looked upward into the sky. In its eyes were terror and calm infused into its constant glare. The kingfisher raised its head, and the fish was gone.
Sitting on a rock was a toad. It just rested there, perfectly immobile other than the undulations of its throat when it croaked. Its croak was not proud. It may have once been, but it was not so currently. The toads croak was that of an old person of fading importance sitting on his chair, calling feebly for servants to attend to assorted matter. Its bumpy skin was dark, and blended nicely with the its throne. And other than its croak and its throat, the toad was invisible in those halted rocks. Even the lowly arthropods crawled over the pitiful body of the amphibian. The toad did not smile, nor did he frown. His expression encompassed both. The time was near when the toad would be at peace, and he was happy about that, but sad as well, for the time spent in chaos to end.
The breeze softened a little more. The ripples momentarily smoothened a little more than normal. I wondered a little about what my companion was thinking. I felt the need to glance at him, but it was not, I also felt, a great concern.
And then, in the water, a mere couple of feet away, I saw a large fish. On each side of its wrinkled face were long, trailing whiskers. The cat-fishs scales were dark, but easily distinguishable in the dense vegetation. Through under-water reeds and weeds, the cat-fish floated delicately. But when I saw its face, I was saddened. For the face was that of someone who had experienced the ways of the world, and not benefited greatly. And although this must have been true, the old fish continued to drift among the plants and the other, faster fish. Its eyes were glazed over and losing light. Its lips were turning a strange light color. And yet the old fish glided through the water with a slight smile on its face. Its movements were slow now and losing strength. The fish carried itself towards a shallow part of the water. There the water would not be able to supply his gills with oxygen, but the fish didnt seem to mind. Growing slower and slower, but more elegant with every slight swish of it fins, the ancient cat-fish swam until his dorsal fin was above the water, being pushed gently by fading ripples. Finally, the cat-fish expended his energy and his body went limp and let the waves carry him to a clump of grass and exposed sea-weed near the shore. There the cat-fish was nestled in a soft bed of grass where the fish let the ripples of the water rock him gently, where the fish listened to the laughter of the trees that halted the rocks, which he gazed at. The fish grinned contently and faded away, one with the world.
I stood up, ready to depart from the lake. I looked at the man still sitting in the bench. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed forward. It looked as if he were listening. He probably was listening. He probably was listening to the trees and the laughter of past events, now only survived by his memory of them, the same way past times in nature are preserved in the rocks. He also sat as still as the rocks and the wrinkles on his face, much like the ripples in the water, were slackened. His face was calm and serene, and his wispy moustache waved goodbye in the wind.
Well, I said, patting his shoulder briefly. Ill be seeing you.
And with that, I departed.
Old Fish Die Gracefully
The wind blew gently against the trees and the rocks. The needles of the majestic, towering pine trees rustled together as if laughing. But the rustling was calm and the laughing seemed destined to evanesce. And yet it still had the power to halt the rocks that heard the laughter. It was the type of sound that drew you into itself, and made you one with the world. The world that rippled like the water in a lake. These ripples glided across the water, starting out hopeful, gaining strength, and then reaching their greatest heights. And then as they traveled closer to shore, they lowered and finally disappeared, and returned to the world that they had emanated from. The ripples were not orderly, they were even at times chaotic, but they were at peace with the world; at least in the beginning and in the end. Everything was at peace with the world. All was right with the world. The trees laughed, the rocks stood still, and the ripples in the lake rose and fell.
But it never lasted indefinetely. The peace would be disrupted. It was inevitable. This inevitability was one of the ultimate forces that drove the world. It could be interrupted by anything, even the blink of an eye. It didnt even need the blink of an eye. All it really needed was for the mind to snap out of the harmony and return to the chaos of life. It happened all too often. And it annoyed me.
I had been sitting on a bench facing the lake. Sitting beside me was an old man of possibly Asian decent, and possibly derelict. He was bundled up in blankets and jackets quite heavily, yet it wasnt very cold. His hair, both facial and scalp, was gray; the type of gray that you see in the dreary sky after its been raining for a week and then shake you fist at it and shout curses at it. Over the majority of his head was a strange furry cap, similar to those ones found in northern Europe. His moustache resembled to opposite, horizontal shoots of bamboo. They were long, drooping at the ends, and had occasional branches spouting off in different directions. The old man also had a beard to be reckoned with. It was long and thin, starting just from his chin and ending in some unknown place within his bundles. From what I could see, it would seem like an ideal place to hide a sword.
We were sitting on that old wooden bench facing the cool, tranquil, life-filled waters of the lake. On the left of us was a pine forest and to the right were two paths a path extending around the lake and a path leading back to the city. We were sitting only a foot away from the lake. I could easily see the creatures that dwelled below the waters surface. Where we sat, there was no shore, rather a small cliff from the perspective of a smaller organism. Because of this, there was no real shore where we were sitting, just another part of the actual lake. A little ways out was a small patch of land covered in reeds and tall grass and small trees.
In the midst of the laughing pines, I heard the cries of birth. I peered at it and saw an eagle perched above its nest in a tall old oak. The chicks bawled incessantly and reached their heads up blindly, hoping to be the first to be fed by their parent. The eagle put its great curved beak over the nearest chick and regurgitated a fish into its offsprings mouth. The chick lowered its head and sat there digesting the meal, grateful of having it, but hungry for more. Their eyes were barely opened, and they could not see the world that they were to live and eventually die in.
Closer to me was a family of ducks. On the water they sat, gliding across the lake quacking fondly to each other. Behind the mother and father ducks were half a dozen baby ducks. The ducklings followed their parents, confident that they would protect and provide for them. There would be a day when the ducklings would have to finally separate from there parents. But that day was not now. At the moment, the ducklings were content with their dependency. And so, the family glided on, across the lake and through the ripples of the lake.
On one of the trees growing on the patch of land in the lake was perched a kingfisher. It stood there on the highest branch of its tree. It raised its head proudly and sang its song. It reverberated throughout the land like the trumpets of the highest court of the highest king. The kingfisher ceased and looked down into the water with menacing eyes. They narrowed, and in a great flash of blue and white, it dived down and snatched a small fish. The kingfisher flew back to its branch, its quarry trapped between its beak. The fish looked upward into the sky. In its eyes were terror and calm infused into its constant glare. The kingfisher raised its head, and the fish was gone.
Sitting on a rock was a toad. It just rested there, perfectly immobile other than the undulations of its throat when it croaked. Its croak was not proud. It may have once been, but it was not so currently. The toads croak was that of an old person of fading importance sitting on his chair, calling feebly for servants to attend to assorted matter. Its bumpy skin was dark, and blended nicely with the its throne. And other than its croak and its throat, the toad was invisible in those halted rocks. Even the lowly arthropods crawled over the pitiful body of the amphibian. The toad did not smile, nor did he frown. His expression encompassed both. The time was near when the toad would be at peace, and he was happy about that, but sad as well, for the time spent in chaos to end.
The breeze softened a little more. The ripples momentarily smoothened a little more than normal. I wondered a little about what my companion was thinking. I felt the need to glance at him, but it was not, I also felt, a great concern.
And then, in the water, a mere couple of feet away, I saw a large fish. On each side of its wrinkled face were long, trailing whiskers. The cat-fishs scales were dark, but easily distinguishable in the dense vegetation. Through under-water reeds and weeds, the cat-fish floated delicately. But when I saw its face, I was saddened. For the face was that of someone who had experienced the ways of the world, and not benefited greatly. And although this must have been true, the old fish continued to drift among the plants and the other, faster fish. Its eyes were glazed over and losing light. Its lips were turning a strange light color. And yet the old fish glided through the water with a slight smile on its face. Its movements were slow now and losing strength. The fish carried itself towards a shallow part of the water. There the water would not be able to supply his gills with oxygen, but the fish didnt seem to mind. Growing slower and slower, but more elegant with every slight swish of it fins, the ancient cat-fish swam until his dorsal fin was above the water, being pushed gently by fading ripples. Finally, the cat-fish expended his energy and his body went limp and let the waves carry him to a clump of grass and exposed sea-weed near the shore. There the cat-fish was nestled in a soft bed of grass where the fish let the ripples of the water rock him gently, where the fish listened to the laughter of the trees that halted the rocks, which he gazed at. The fish grinned contently and faded away, one with the world.
I stood up, ready to depart from the lake. I looked at the man still sitting in the bench. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed forward. It looked as if he were listening. He probably was listening. He probably was listening to the trees and the laughter of past events, now only survived by his memory of them, the same way past times in nature are preserved in the rocks. He also sat as still as the rocks and the wrinkles on his face, much like the ripples in the water, were slackened. His face was calm and serene, and his wispy moustache waved goodbye in the wind.
Well, I said, patting his shoulder briefly. Ill be seeing you.
And with that, I departed.
End
