An old man contemplates life.
A million hours seem to have passed since I last glimpsed the sea. When my uncle treated me to it, it was a beautiful mass of destruction glittering happily, a pattern of rolling waves. Now as I see the small ripples of breeze or a fallen leaf forming at the bank of the small pond before my house, I cannot help but think that my scale's a bit off.
When one is small, everything seems so much larger. Playgrounds once a distance to travel around seem so tiny years later; even the pet dog seems to, despite logic, shrink as one gets used to its presence. And here I am, thinking back to a puddle I once saw that may be quite small to someone, somewhere...
But such thoughts I should put away. Many years have passed since I bothered about problems not urgent, and why should I bother about them now? But in such a time that nothing seems of importance, not even matters before me, why not focus on something else, if not to keep my brain stimulated?
Yet life all around me is working harder than I, not focusing on trivial problems. Somewhere in the distance a bird is struggling for its life against a fox, and as the sun sets now the owls are waking, ready for the hunt. My problems, as all problems seem to be, are small. Not even the tip of a pin in the eyes of the universe. That as it is, I am forced to look inside, desperate to find some validation of my importance. Not finding sufficiency, I look to the past.
Years ago, with my brother, I tried skiing. It was a cold, blizzardy day, and the welcoming crunch of snow was like a testament to my eagerness. Of course, with conditions as they were, many warned us not to go. But I was young and foolhardy, and I couldn't find a reason against it -- rather I found it ever more exciting! I ended up breaking my nose, but the day after was clear, and my brother was trapped in ice after an avalanche. Both of us stardust-made humans, with no more relation than a few chromosomes, yet I grieved in full. No one shall ever blame me for this act, nor shall I. But now I'd like to think that in hindsight, relation is an excuse for friendship between unlike people, a mere reason to have people close to you. Maybe it's being alone that makes me think this...
Now I haven't anyone close to me, and I can feel this way. Alone in my house on the pond, not a soul is here to debate my thoughts. Insanity grows from solitude, I've heard, and of course I fear for its coming. But in the meantime I'll be staring across this water, searching for the past, for the present, for the future.