Incandescent peaks of halcyon hills seize your gaze in the evening when weary sun grazes those hilltops and sky simmers with crimson, vermilion, azure and milky white lights. Slowly a fiery red flush creeps over the valley and spills around the horizons sprinkling the sneaky woods with a soothing blush. Leisurely the dimming sky gathers darker, exotic cosmic shades of night. The river, the woods, that narrow track along the river leading to woods, placidly all pass to slumber. Trees become sombre and quieter, mysterious and resting for the night.
In the morning, a soft golden glint slowly bursts through the sky. Trees patiently await the sun to rise while birds trill their flurried chirps. The glory of the pristine mountain, bit by bit, heaves to the sight. There’s a dignity, an incorruptible beauty in the solemness of the robust hills. Wholesome perfumed air conveys the scent of pink and maroon whispy blossoms and fills the whole valley. The spectacular vista of lush little folds of majestic mountains and the free-spirited river is spellbinding. There is a deep calm and stillness that blooms into an intense and profound peace. An extraordinary sense of life overflows. One can lose track of time and still a tiny whit of life is never missed.
As though I am indigenous to a quaint, sequestered isle riddled with damp mossy soil and scads of jutting peaks. I have sought solace in the penny-pinching halts amid the frantic sand of time careening along days, weeks, months on and on. Quietness in the world is a different kind of necessity. Thousands of nights I slipped off into slumber awaiting nothing, anticipating the morning never arrives. Nevertheless, it did. The grisly clamorous morning, screeching a wound in the hidden recesses of your soul in inexplicable respect. You sink and smother in the thick mass oozing off the surrounding that preys and feeds upon the reaction. When living simply implies either ignoring or responding or reacting. You need to be registered in a certain manner that has to be understood/misunderstood/un-understood by a certain kind of mind obliquely but forcibly demanding you to be adjustable, to suit its reactions. This phenomenon itself substantiates that one cannot meet the blinkered or imaginary expectations even when reduced into what one isn’t. You are here, at this moment, and this is sufficient. Who you are isn’t contingent upon anyone’s understanding or reaction. Anything in nature never depends upon mental dexterities of a particular person, his beliefs or ideas. It isn’t necessary to be presented to the world for further distortion. You are always present without that. Is being not enough? Your presence is perpetually disturbing. Who you are — is a problem that needs to be solved. You can’t lay your mind to rest. You have to shut down or open up on someone’s commands disregarding your inner guidance. Your natural response is consistently contorted or off-balanced that eventually yields to silence. You endeavour to protect it for all your worth. This invisible struggle ramifies into numerous consequence.
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