Looking back on it all was the worst for him, the first, the last, the middle, the end, and all the bad tastes in between. The palate of his plate was raw, bland; lackluster at best. What was there to live for but to grow old, and what was in growing old but death? And why would anyone, in their correct youthful mindset look forward to such a thing? These and many more were his thoughts as he sat there, his feet dangling over the edge of the small wooden bridge that smelled of the forest; the musty earthen scent of damp dirt, the fresh scent of lightly misted grass which grew lush in the light morning sun, just rising as these thoughts found themselves in his head. A light fog lifted from the water which lapped listlessly at his heels, just barely wetting them. The fog was so deeply connected to him at that moment, that he reached out to touch it. It parted to his warm hand, butter to a hot knife; in it's parting he felt it upon him, damp, cold...comforting. Understanding. Loving. He drew his hand to his chest sharply, inhaling quick short puffs of the fresh oxygen surrounding him. Loving. It was loving, fog was loving...what was he thinking? Or was it perhaps that he was not thinking, which indeed was a far greater thing for him to do, far healthier. He stood, stretching his long arms over and behind his head, arching his back so that his pelvis moved forward until it was almost touching the bridge. For a moment, he stayed that way, looking up at the soft cerulean sky, spattered with pale pinks, brushed with lightly flowing lavender, he looked at the sun burning a dull orange as it rose above the world, like a rocket that burned it's dull orange trail as it rose into space. He was utterly alone. There was nothing but trees to be seen on either side of the lake and on each side of the bridge there was but a small beaten path which twisted through the old forest. His hands fell hard upon the sides of the bridge, grasping the worn wood tightly. He sighed. His breath was barely visible in the cool morning air, puffing out like a short drag from a cigarette, and disappearing just as quickly. That's how he was breathing, as if he was smoking. Deep inhalations. Even deeper exhalations. He thought for a minute how odd it was that though the exports were larger than the inports as far as oxygen exchange went in his body, it was the inports that lasted longer. Once he exhaled, he thought, it all disappeared. But when he inhaled, it lasted as long as he could hold on to it. Perhaps this was a parallel between nature and man, he thought.

And so he began to walk.

He began to ponder.

About his life. About all of the things he felt he had missed out on.

"Woe be it that man cannot but exhale his troubles and have them fade," he said to the blooming flowers who fought for air, sunlight, and water amongst the great pine trees that towered high above them.

"Woe be it that we are all too weak to just let go, even though we know the battle has been lost," he said to the vine which held fast to the very tree which had grown so far up that it had forgotten it's struggles completely.

"And woe be it that life is but a passing phase, which can be taken from us in an instant, yes, woe be it that life often leaves us to lie dormant until something comes upon us and draws us from or shell to live in full color. For you see, and yes, I know you understand, that more often than not we pass by, living but not alive; we pass time only eating, drinking, breathing, until one day we are drawn out and show the world our true beauty. But we open only for a moment, and in that brief moment, wrought on by passion for existence, our beauty is destroyed. So we must go back again to living without living, until the delicate cycle is begun again. Woe be it that life is but a passing phase in which we are beautiful one moment, and garishly grotesque the next."

This he said to the wilted red rose, which waited on the soft touch of warm sunshine or the sweet tang of gently falling rain.