The red apple

Goodness

Where has the goodness gone?

This forest of my mind seems stark these days, without the beauty that once fell upon it. Where the beauty of innocence once grew, the senility of cynicism has covered the ground. In the golden leaves of fall, where the warmth of a coming season would announce itself, there is now only the unromantic smoke of smoldering fire, a bitter smoke that yearns to be poetic. And here on this horizon, the rise of each sun is clouded by resentment towards yesterday.

Goodness is no trivial thing. It is a whisper in this forest, a spirit of sorts. It is something that travelers claim to have, only to check their pockets and find the opposite. The sparrows can sense it, and they shiver when it is far. It is a thing that must remain on your mind, lest you become lost in the meaningless rambles of a fool, and the gluttonous bellowing of a twisted man. Goodness is the final shelter for the wandering human soul.

Oh, that goodness would return. That its rays would warm the earth once more, and stir the cold wings of the birds. That it would inspire the land once again, to strain against time, bearing age and death into consideration. What a thought it is, that flesh could be so warm and so cold at the same time.

Something in my soul longs so deeply for silence once more. For the unrequited serenity that comes from a meditation of the mind. But this world calls for a tribute of your time. It calls for the comings and goings of a modern man, and the adulterated ambitions that we lay on the altar.

Should goodness return, it would storm this land by force, for goodness makes no treaties. Oh, that this land would live with vigor once more.

And so here, in the beginnings of silence, a meditation begins. For no one should demand life more than the living.

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