The One Thing Alive
"This lake is so dead," I drearily thought to myself. The snow on the dead trees gave it the feel of a black & white movie with no plot. The only thing interesting was her. Color in a sea of black and white. A red beacon of happiness and life. I slowly began to realize that just her lone prescence was enough to fill the entire lake with the life and vigor that it normally had. What a magnificent realization! I looked into the face of beauty with both affection and admiration. How could I be so lucky to even spend a lone minute with one of such grace, let alone a whole spectacular day?! At this precise moment, the scale was balanced perfectly, and I was fulfilled. Life didn't have to have meaning, it had her. Life didn't have to have thrills, it had her. Life didn't have to have anything else at all, it had her.
Harmonious scenery, you have me enticed. You make it no wonder to me as to why I decided to take bits and peices of you and put them on paper by means of camera. Everything belonged where it should that afternoon, and I was there to witness it all. And not only did I witness it, I was a part of it. I was a part of a wonderful composition that could not have improved upon the slightest bit. I loved that feeling of belonging so. Standing there, on that island, surrounded by a frozen lake blanketed by snow, dead trees with the touch of old man winter about them, and next to the red coated girl whom I had so often admired, whether it be from near or afar. Red, the color of passion. Red, the color of blood. Red, the color of hunger. Red, the color of life. Her coat seemed to represent so many things, but only in reflection. At that time, I had no room for thoughts of representation, just room for taking pleasure in the scenery and situation that I had so fortunately been put in. I belonged.
Harmonious scenery, you have me enticed. You make it no wonder to me as to why I decided to take bits and peices of you and put them on paper by means of camera. Everything belonged where it should that afternoon, and I was there to witness it all. And not only did I witness it, I was a part of it. I was a part of a wonderful composition that could not have improved upon the slightest bit. I loved that feeling of belonging so. Standing there, on that island, surrounded by a frozen lake blanketed by snow, dead trees with the touch of old man winter about them, and next to the red coated girl whom I had so often admired, whether it be from near or afar. Red, the color of passion. Red, the color of blood. Red, the color of hunger. Red, the color of life. Her coat seemed to represent so many things, but only in reflection. At that time, I had no room for thoughts of representation, just room for taking pleasure in the scenery and situation that I had so fortunately been put in. I belonged.