There is a river outside my little cottage in the woods. It flows beautifully and the sound of water swishing against its kin is the most melodious sound to my ears. The little droplets of water are little musicians. They play the strings of harp, the stairs of keys, the sharpness of violin and the sounds sync in perfect harmony. It is the rhythm of hope and love. Oh, how I could just sit by the cool liquid warming my frozen feet and listen to it all day long. My personal symphony.
When light hover above the horizon, MY - I feel selfish towards it - little river gleams breathtakingly. The way a ray of Sun touches the surface shyly and how its offspring shines seven wondrous colours never ceased to amaze me. Sometimes, just sometimes, they glitter and shimmer as if on a night out in a summer disco. The blue, red, green, yellow flowers come dressed for the occasion, heads bobbing to the beat of bass. And if you come a little closer to my river, you can see tiny big, beady eyes staring back. How is my river giving life?
Then, the season of warmth and haze and green and brown comes. The burgundy, yellow, or even orange patterned leaves swirl around my river like a dance. A slow dance but not lacking in vigor. A gentle hurricane in the middle of the woods. White winged creatures scatter in the skies, a stark contrast againt the painted blue. Then the others start joining the symphony without a sense of tune. It is far from soothing but the soothe comes to me. A leaf will even descend to float on my river, swaying left to the left and to the right. Left. Right. My river is a jukebox, it seems.
Then slowly, I awaken to the sound of chill and barrenness. Where is my music? My river no longer plays for me. The water is still, cold, colder than ever. I no longer see its heartbeat and without it, I no longer see its life. The colour is drained from my art block and even the Sun shies away. Gold does not streak the front porch like it used to. I hated being outside. That night, I wept to myself and more nights after until there was no more. I was no more.
Time passes and slowly, slowly, the river awakens. Morning birds start their mindless chatter. The trees, rejuvenated from freshness. Spots of pink and red blotches the backyard like a deep blush on someone's face. The Sun smiled down at its friends and finally, oh finally, the river flows again in true grace and elegance. Their hopes, shared. A baby's cry in the distance destroys the still yet, they smile.
