Mist gathers across the valley in the hours preceding the dawn. It is the time of concealment, where serenity is all but complete and yet no joy can penetrate. Anticipating the rising sun, energy gathers momentum. The mist thins as if in fear of the coming onslaught, while the temperature drops, a final stand before surrendering to a higher power.
Observing such a morning, one sees our own nature.
Man cowers and hides his ambition from a sensible society, one predisposed to political correctness as its only yardstick of humanity. He thinks that no one will see his snickering and deludes both the surroundings and himself. As life unfolds, events cause pause and reflection on the inevitability of the failed delusion of the Creator. Yet, with his last stand approaching, no bended knee is offered.
We are but dust and earth, striving to show our relevance in a cosmic tapestry beyond our comprehension. Such folly is almost whimsical, and yet some of our greatest minds are the first to err.
