Small Frog.

Basically just a writing exercise. Constructive criticism is welcome.

I sat alone outside in the wet grass.

Quiet.

Subtle.

The rain beat lightly on my skin, rolling down my cheeks,

Dripping off my chin.

No, it was not rain,

But the very tears I had been crying for hours.

Could it really have been hours?

I wouldn't know.

It's times like these where you just lose track of time.

An hour flies by in seconds.

All you do is sit there,

And cry.

Every movement around me,

Every sound that traveled through my ears,

I was oblivious to it.

All of it.

I sat in the field,

Just staring.

Staring at a small frog.

The pond was a long way away,

For him.

I could walk there within minutes.

Why didn't I help it get home?

I watched as it hopped,

Then paused for a moment,

Then resumed hopping.

It was determined to get home.

To reach his goal,

That would take all day,

But it didn't give up.

Then I thought to myself,

"Why give up?"

I had given up on moving on,

Convinced that my time would come.

I couldn't face the fact that it wouldn't.

I crawled over and picked up the small frog.

It did not squirm,

But accept my hand.

I stood up and headed for the pond.

This small animal.

This tiny,

Slimey

Amphibian,

It helped me see clearly,

For the first time in years.

As we reached the pond,

I sat down and set the frog on the cold, wet ground.

I watched as it hopped away toward the water,

It did not look back,

But kept moving forward.

I vowed to do exactly that:

Not to look back on the past,

But to move onward into the future,

With no regrets.

The End

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