Tip-toeing snow on the morning ground. Rising and spreading your arms across the sky, embracing the clouds and the brightest light. From his shack the smell of a gurgling coffee pot. Alerting critters and larger woods dwellers that the master has finally risen.
On the shore of the pond drift wood tentatively crawls out of the waters incited on by the lapping surf.
The pond, a mirror held up to the almighty, as to offer itself to his vanity, is respectfully crowded by a flock of monochrome birds, gently caressing its surface and interrupting God's reverie.
As every other day in his 31 years, he woke up trying to remember where he was, who he was, what was he going to do with another day at his disposal.
During the early hours a dream came form the abyss to remind him of childhood, his young companions and a teacher who to his eyes enjoyed cruelty. A moment prior to the opening of the gates, his rush down the hallway to regroup with his classmates. The gates opened and the deluge of younglings, running towards their issuers. A cold touch upon the shoulder, the teacher, whispering in his ear: "wait". Rage.
Light. Every day remembering who he was, where he was. Awakening as at Birth. To open ones eyes in a foreign room surrounded by alien faces. Re-birth. Memories of who we once were galloping to rescue us from ignorance or to tie us down to yester mistakes? Infinite possibilities the memory of which might take us along our day, by the hand, ethereal guardian angel, to thread our new path our new tapestry, to write our memoirs for tomorrow's self to remember.
Detailed accounts of human history are full of menial details, repeated over and over by us. By you. Life is not a mystery. Presented to us without words, just given as it is. For Simon Weil "Suicide is the only philosophical question".
