The nonpareil beauty smiles at me.
Like a knowing mother.
Because beauty never screams.
It smiles, then whispers.
The star spangled sky, in all its sheerness, looks at me with those starry eyes.
The moon dazzles in the lapping waters like an angel reveling in her endless ethereal beauty.
Morning, like a gust of fresh air, caresses me.
Evening, airy, jovial, but heavy, is like a friend saying goodbye, vowing to return soon.
Those immutable, immovable, timeless, ageless sentinels stand silent, unblemished, unperturbed — mountains.
Along with them stand their gnarled brothers under the foliage, a green curtain — trees.
The sweetness in the unaddled air is almost intoxicating, addictive.
The sun jives with me.
And shines. Then dazzles. Then glistens. Then goes back beneath the shoulders of his friends. To make someone else’s day.
Clouds are like fleeting halos around their gods. Those towering leviathans.
And we still don’t see it. And we still don’t get it.
The sound of silence is absolute, like still water, and a distant random sound, like a small pebble upsets the tandem.
Simple lessons of life.
The birds do what they do. Chirp and caw and coo.
The insects make their own sounds, too.
And this cacophony is like a latent euphony, waiting for the willing ears.
What makes me happier is that all this is not a fantasy, but reality. But then, what else, would fantasy be? If not this.
Realism screams at me, that it’s all so obvious, trifling, trivial, not a miracle.
Reality pulls a face, and asks me, “Is it so?”