Hello. I’m extremely busy with work and school and lack both time and inspiration for writing! But I was reading back in my journals and I found this pretty little thing I wrote four years ago, when I was 17 and realizing my love for geography. I’ll share it with you now! Try and picture it clearly!
Three sides of my house face inland. The other, southwards to the water. From my mom’s room, the hills to the north and buildings to the west can be seen through paltry windows. The view is nice, but human’s structural footprints block away most of the pretty, natural stuff. My bedroom also has a window-- but it’s a great, vast one. I’ve spent many hours looking out to the forested hills to the north east. It blocks up the entire aperture, forcing me to duck in order to see the blue of the sky. However, most days, it’s gray and sullen.
When the sky is gray like today, all the world seems to try and match it. The rich, pine greens of my beloved hill also seem muddled, washed out. While this gloominess would usually be an annoyance, it seems to fit well with the area. Thick, unwavering clouds and heavy fog block away the outside world. All of a sudden, the universe is simply my house and my hill. No matter what fog we are faced with, the hill will always peak above it. It stands in stoicness and solemness, sturdier than anything I’ve ever known. In a way, it's comforting.
The other sights from my high perch include an assortment of trees and bushes. The closest ones are now blooming in the earliest of spring weather, full of new red and pink ornaments. The coniferous trees surrounding them, however, never even lost theirs. The landscape of trees all around this area has changed rather suddenly, which is a shame. About a month back we had a huge winter storm, which is uncommon around here. We felt the effects even weeks later. Many trees were frozen and blown over in the wind, even some of the huge cedars that have been here all my life.
The only thing around here to have never experienced destruction (and never will, hopefully), is our grand old river. It dominates the view from the south facing windows in the living room where I now write. The river is impossibly wide. Looking across is difficult, as the spring sun shines down hard and reflects in a thousand bright twinkles of light. Every single wave is scurrying to get somewhere, a number completely beyond counting. And each of these waves, small and big, has been christened by the sunshine, and with shining bodies they go on their way. At this blessed meeting place, where the hills meet the river, the two connect in rocky conflict. During windstorms the waves crash up across the rocks, and occasionally flood areas such as our low positioned backyard. But on days like today, when the river runs softly and there’s hardly any wind present, the river laps lazily up and down the beaches.
Lapping, lapping, never stopping. I don't want to forget that sound.