The Eye of Naturalism

A brilliant sun, shining through a hazy morning sky lights the tossing leaves that, by natural decree, don the translucent vibrancy of life. The wind is cool, but hardly cold. A vivacity of strength and newly discovered being seems to emanate from nature's every move. Through the narrow grid of the old french doors that let in the sunlight I see the world beyond. A poorly kept hedge, a gravel path, and an old country road that disappears into steep mountain trails. Beyond, the great sweeping course of the valley stretches towards the horizon, dotted with villages, towns, cities, and, just beyond the edge of sight, a glimmer reflected from the sea.


As night approaches, lights, like a luminous forest spring up among the shadows till, between the dark arms of the surrounding hills an illuminating river runs from some hidden source to the edge of the Mediterranean. There, the void of thoughtless infinity begins. On land, the last holdout of day stands, against all odds, to face the force of all-embracing night. Distinct, a million pin-point lights combine to fight reality. Then, as if subdued by an unseen hand, the lights go out. One by one, thousand by thousand, a chilling wind lays to rest all human breath. Alone, travelers pour along the roadways in a restless consciousness that, albeit unwillingly, remains to defy the call of mother nature. Passing -- ever passing -- soon they are gone. The night is cold. Above all else, the cynic's question resonates throughout the emptiness of time: "what is truth?"