If it be bestowed upon me a chance to present to life a true form of silence, it would not be without sound. For countless days the world has been mute with speech, odorless with scent, and dark with fading light, and it is under such condition I felt to have lost my name, even if it shall likely be the last to remain, the utterances of which have long eluded me. Here, how adrift I am from the affairs of others, while to have myself left behind. What use are of the senses, if now all they perceive are the confounded traces of themselves. Something awaits.

By chance a ray of light shines in from above, and gradually the exterior settles in. The cloak has been uncovered and I arise to see a cemetery I have ambled through in certain moments of my life, though this time it is from a perspective anyone who had underwent would aptly tremble at immediate sight. On the left, rows of trees align to form a bulwark of sorts, a barrier separating areas designated for those presently living and those disappearing into history. From experience I know that it would be a short stroll through the leaves to reach a sidewalk that would eventually lead, in some form or another, to a place occupied by person and people alike, bustling through day and night, and what keeps them going is an admirable anticipation for the future, which, although loses its luster day by day, retains its faint hopefulness. I can imagine my dwelling somewhere in these vibrant visions and sounds, but I am no longer a part of it, nor should I desire to return.

Another path also presents itself to me, and while it was scarcely trodden, I know where it leads to. It is a place that I am only able to describe by the fragmented presents that have passed, the shapes of which I have committed to memory. I decide to follow the path, and as I progress further the recollections slowly return. It is a lake, a lake unlike other bodies of water that receive the same name. On a sunny day it redistributes the luminosity from above to the flourishing lakeside flora. It sustains itself, even without being seen, and it creates, out of nothing but itself, all those that become scenes. And although it is often merely a passageway for travelers from somewhere to another, it has a capability to be a destination. Even when the bone-piercing draft of the winter glides into every opening and crevice, the lake remains a sanctum of life, of all kinds, that are bold enough to accept its embrace.

I arrive, and quite suddenly I feel a part of me ignited. I feel a sensation that only those who had felt it before can resonate with another’s unsaid remarks. It is true that the older I became the more I was intensely convinced by the quality of beauty, and that upon some point in my life, following the passing of another, did I find this site, that had such an existential impact upon my formulation of selfhood did I develop a pitiful, almost romantic yearning for a state of being so subtle it scarcely breathes, so trifling it almost lacks, yet so beyond the scope of my deficient comprehension it became, as small as it was, as pathetic as it was, as improbable as it was, my entirety.

I stare into the middle of the lake, from which ripples begin to emerge. It is difficult for one to decide the course of their lives, and often by the most unexpected of events it carries itself off careful speculation and instead into a wild, chaotic odyssey. But I wonder if I ever have the power to influence the beginning of one’s journey, or if I demand so carefully of myself, its end. To the future who shall not hear, I will recall that this voyage started, like all other things of my past, by the side of the lake, and into its unknown depth. The mirror of the lake, I see, displays its impeccable imperfection. To observe myself further––I plunge into its eternity.