AdriTheDreamer
She hiked on the trail, slowly ascending to the peak.
There was a tiny lookout, paved with cement on the floor, and a simplistic shelter.
She leaned on the guardrails. And she let the entire cityscape enter her eyes. Not a bird-eye angle, but this view was gorgeous.
Henry walked in a dark corridor. It was seemingly endless, and the lights were dim enough that required him to sometimes squint.
He could not decide on which way to go. There were so many doors, but he did not want to face the scenery behind.
He may have missed a lot. But he wanted no risk. So, there was no outcome.
She held up her handheld lamp and stepped out of her house. Perhaps it was the evening rush hour; but the neighbourhood street was eerily quiet, and the streetlights were not lit.
The only source of light was hang below her right hand.
She peeked around. And tried to see further.
There were some brightness from afar. Maybe it was just a power outage.
Even after she graduated, she stayed in this college town. There was not much craze compared to the countryside, nor thrill like the metropolis. All she did was something simple things. Things that reminded her of her youth. Things that she dwelled on.
Soft, supportive, probably wrapped by some other fabric. It is what we first say goodbye to when we start a day. It is what we rely on when we end a day. Do not pinch your pennies on a pillow; it is crucial to how we sleep, how good we rest, and how prepared we are for the next day.
He stood tall. Took a deep breath, and faced forward. He felt ready for whatever was coming, even though he did not know what actually was coming. He brought up the courage even though people have been saying he could not. But he did not care; because he knew he would do it the best he could.
This was a mountain of fine sand. It stood tall, humongous, and stable.
There did not seem to have anything that may change this equilibrium.
Or would it?
A lone grain of whatever particle was blown from afar.
Landed on the structure.
And it all crumbled.
He looked up to the sky.
In the somber dark night, the stars twinkles. Some brighter, some dimmer, and some are slower.
They never cared if there was, is, or will be an audience.
They simply are there, doing their own thing.
He wondered if his life can also have such a sparkle; be it big, or small.
I walked up to this next tree. Sliced the bark lightly, tapped it, and of course, a bucket to collect. And repeat.
The sap of maple trees shall ultimately be made into a sweet syrup birghtening everything.
But now, effort must be made before the magic could happen.
Before it was invented, its function probably has existed.
Now we use it to support. To place things. To create on. To do something.
Then we sit around it, bouncing ideas back and forth. A peaceful reading of a screenplay.
And it was flipped. Who did it? We may remember someone who did, we mostly forgot who did.
Whatever shape and form it takes, it is not going away.
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