/lit/ - Literature

When I was a kid, there was a little gate in my backyard that led out to a small wooden bridge over a stream which ran the length of the neighborhood. From the kitchen window you could see the local kids pass through the yard in summer to go play. My friends and I did too of course: Cross the water with the stones (and try not to slip), make a mini dam, hunt for nice rocks, explore the woods, throw ninja stars at trees, you know. As you get older, all this stuff becomes pretty dull. The same stream, the same rocks, anyone would get bored. So eventually, all the kids moved on.

But there was always something odd about it... a faint something. When you were with your friends, it was easy to ignore. But once you were alone, it hit you full force, left you frustrated and confused. How do I explain it? There's a weird sense of emptiness, of your own mortality. Those of you who go walking at sunset may know what I mean. Sometimes at sunset, you catch the sun go down in just the perfect spot and it's a nice, warm feeling. But other times, especially in winter, it's this queer feeling like the world is actually ending and the sun might not come up tomorrow. That kind of empty feeling, you know? It's interesting how we romanticize nature as the picture of beauty. Sometimes she is beautiful, yes, but other times nature has made me feel like the loneliest man on earth. And no one ever mentions that.