I walk up the steep winding path. At last, I reach the top. The wind rushes into my face with so much fervor as if it has been waiting to reveal all its secrets, held for ages. In the middle of summer, here’s winter. The clouds hanging low, so low, that it is almost impossible to tell if the hills have raised their heads up or the sky’s bosom has sunk lower.
Far away in the distance, patches of green crawl up and down the hills, draping them in ecstatic beauty. The myriad browns make for an exciting pantone leaf; plenty refreshing it is for the tired eyes that have had nothing but a view of the obligated monotony for what appears like eons. Gradually, the sun slinks into a slumber allowing me the much needed privacy.
At the foot of the hill, streams, merry and mighty, slither away and disappear in woody burrows, far beyond life and the living. The woods that are more than a hundred years old form a canopy over the carefree stream; all playing their majestic roles in the play.
I grow tired from inactivity but also revel in the solemn activity of nature working its magic on me like a sorcerer performing scintillating art and I am a mere puppet to its moves. The hills, I wonder, must be bored. But when has one grown blase of genuine beauty when it seduces you so prepensely?
Standing there, atop the hill, I look down upon the world. I smile thinking to myself – Life is strange. I look up at it every minute of every breath while it continues to look down upon me.