“It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
A window pane, it embraces millions of stories, thousands of beautiful images, reserving countless stories.
Today, it frames sadness; it’s pouring tiny scared drops on earth, saturating everything with a shaky cold fear. T
he misty fog is slithering its way through the tall trees, its greedy paws reaching out for every gap between sanity and light. It takes over the greens and all the eyes can see is dreary grey.
As if the spirits seek revenge of the tortured souls. Murky stones drip their sorrow on earth, drowning the low in the retaliation of the high.
A stray shaft of light brightens where the mist and the clouds drift apart. Terrified imaginations plead for the comforting halo of the sun.
The weak imaginations do not perceive the greatness that the gray mass beholds. They cannot comprehend the bliss of its tears falling from the high to wipe the insanity off. They will never know the tranquility of the encircled stillness in the smoky haze of the fog.
But the deer knows.
He stands still in time fixing his deliberate gaze on the vague swirl of green and grey, steps gracefully among the wonders and myths that haunt the land.
I find sanity in the silence of the deer.
I am also a wordless creature sauntering through the mist.
For my strength is not my voice; my eyes hold the power.