The sounds begin as always, with the simple steps as it has been, of boot to gravel beaten. The passing of the night, and my path taken, to walk down, and find an answer I sought, of a day now faded into but a history of myth. The lights arrive, and so as they did, fade just the same in the destination, all but hazy to sight weighted. A turn of note, to see the welcoming of a master long absent, but still to walk on.
Down yet further I go, to be of such a turn yet again, of a moment, regretted of compassion's act, and to find that I only feel the cold bite of winters chill upon my face, a simple askance of the old man, and one I am not ready to take. The path is not long, for it is one of memories oft left behind, and revisited only later, when perceptions and the nature of the world weighs so, be it right, or be it off. I find, that to stare, past the gates that bar none, of what was a memory of light, in heart and smile has fallen, into the gloom. Not even the shadow itself holds sway here, but a pall, a means yet colder still, to bring such tarnish that not even time may amend the best of a rose. A turn about, to look whence the path traveled leads up the hill, having gone back in many ways, and yet, finding such a barren land, that still even of the path back, of step by step to hold the image that not yet has been spoken of, haunts in a power all its own.
The vestige of antiquity, not one that bears a hold, and as so many, is cut low, the frailty of hope but simple nothings that have turned aside. To look now, as the path itself, though of a single mindedness, gave such that a detour could harm none to indulge, for such would be seen, from on high, or in its midst. That I walked to a testament of designed harmony, nature and man himself, and the image is why upon the time of writing, and path returned, that the words pause, if only for the sadness that belies the means of description. The light, such as its sole source, a cold, distant item quite removed, to cast not itself, but its shadow upon the vestiges so shortly spoken upon, and that in its stretching, blanketed the land of bounty, of a simple innocence, into a nature that one almost steps back instinctively. The land claimed, not among the living, not now, but of echoes, memories left and placed with the hope that sat in bitterness among my throat.
At this, I turned, but for a moment, though the image itself vowed to remain in sound, sight, and itself parading. I could not watch yet for its own macabre pleasure, to search, to scan, and the old mans reminder, to scatter those ashes of hope that remained. To see, to feel that reminder of history, memory, and love unrequited now a living shadow of the mirror darkly in its stare back, to that, I turned, and left. To begin my ascent, my climb, in such simplicities sake, the lights of simple things to speed by, to wonder, only now, if they saw, or could, what they would bring back from such a place? I could not say, nor to try, but only sigh, and know that none will understand, not truly and to seek that my words, bring a reminder of how truly fragile things of actions done are.