The note

In the early morning mist, the mountains have started to wake. The distant cries of the wild enriches what's firmly nature's morning call. Standing at the top, a gentle breeze slowly caressing oneself, you start to express your yarning. The longing, the pain, the loneliness, the joy and hope goes out a long way, through the wet leaves of an ancient tree, the furs of a stirring squirrel, the tips of a butterfly, the emerging rays of the sun, and many more.

As each yarning echoes back to oneself, you get hit by the intense emotions. Why does it always comes back? Did anyone hear them? Will he reply back? Your truthful displays seemed lacking of something. Is it a missing note? Is it too early? Or it's just not heard?

You sighed, made a small clearing and settled down. You wait. Slowly, you start to soak up the surroundings, the calmness, the hidden peace, the evergreen of things. You want to smile, but that nasty clot in you says no. Stick to your sorrows, it whispered. But will you?