How is it that you can be surrounded with people and still feel alone? Actually, I guess that’s not the right question. If it were merely people, then sure: your head is your own; your thoughts and feelings remain yours unless you choose to share them and so loneliness is comprehensible. What is more puzzling is how I can feel alone. You see, I’m not just any old person; I’m part of a collective, an ancient race of … well, nymphs. I’m not supposed to feel alone, we’re all connected – part of nature, of each other, one mind – it’s not normal.
It’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who wonders if there’s something more out there, something more tangible than just looking after the trees and springs that we’re bound to protect - something real. I mean don’t get me wrong, I appreciate nature, sure; the creative beauty of it surrounds us and I know, just as the others do, that it’s all part of an intricate weave, a beautiful loom of life where every living organism is a thread that adds to the whole breathtaking tapestry.
But that just adds to my argument. I mean, if the world can be this complex in just its basics then how is it that my life falls so short of any other meaning? Why is it that my existence is as shallow and one-dimensional as a puddle?
“How can you even think that?!” I hear a snort behind me and Echo dances nimbly into my line of vision.
“ You do realise it’s rude to eavesdrop on peoples thoughts?” I reply evenly. I’m not really annoyed with her; she may not understand me, but Echo is the only real friend I’ve had in a while.
“You know I can’t help it. If I could I would - I’d rather not listen to your thoughts, anyway. They’re so strange.”
I sigh. We’ve been over this before and there’s no use in trying to explain. Echo sashays closer and then drops deftly to the ground beside me. I am sprawled across the floor, my fingers twined in the mossy grass and my hair fanned out around my head, wet with dew.
The clearing is beautiful: it's one of my favourite places to come and think. The trees around are dense and the woody smell of oak mixed with the sweet pang of narcissus that grows in thick patches along the ground is enticing. Nearby, hidden through the trees, is a lake as smooth and transparent as glass and from it rises the soft sound of cicadas clear and soothing.
Echo scoots closer and lifts my hand from the ground, threading her fingers through mine. “I wish there was something I could do,” she says, her blue eyes gazing at me intensely. I smile and squeeze her hand gently to acknowledge the sentiment.
My face is reflected in her eyes, an almost mirror image of her own - though my eyes are shades of green instead of blue and my hair straight instead of wavy. This reflects our duties: Echo is bound to the lake; she watches over it maternally, allowing the small insects and animals to partake in its life-giving waters but warding off bigger animals and humans. I am bound to the woods, living amongst the trees as they grow and bend towards the sun, protecting their home. Thus her eyes reflect every cadence of blue that can be found in the depths of her waters while mine take on the lilts of grass and moss and ferns, which vary according to season.
Today the outer-most parts of her iris seem to compliment the sky, which is what I had been contemplating before her arrival – a soft crystal blue - cloudless and inviting. What would it be like, I wondered, to be a bird – to fly through the endless expanse of sky, free and untethered.
Echo suddenly bolts upright. “There is a boy by the lake,” she states before darting off into the trees. I follow lightly, curious as to how she will deal with him.
The boy sits on the edge of the embankment, staring avidly into the water. From this distance I can’t make out his features, but Echo is already near him sitting on a boulder waiting for him to notice. I move closer staying within the line of trunks to keep unnoticed. Now I can see his face and it astonishes me.
He is stunning. His golden blond hair undulates from his scalp framing his slightly broad, peach face and softening his Greek-straight nose. His eyes are the same oak brown as the trees in which I stand and his lips, overly full for a boy, are parted lightly in amazement. His figure is small and fragile-looking – a stark contrast to the overbearing musculature of the men in our race.
Echo calls out, her thoughts targeting my attention, shouting her disapproval of my admiration. The boy looks up and notes the frown in her voice, thinking it is aimed at him. He admires her appearance while she calls in her head for me to leave. I stay where I am, determined to know more about him and also to make sure she doesn’t deal with him too harshly.
She rises and speaks to him again, asking him to leave but he doesn’t seem to hear. She is annoyed but I ask her silently to be nice. He is examining her face, marvelling at her beauty – the colour of her eyes. This causes me an inexplicable pang of regret.
I long to rush over and join them, to talk to this boy, a human, belonging to the parts of the world I have never seen. Echo is listening to his thoughts and unthinkingly comments on them. I yell a warning in my head, they do not posses or understand our powers, and they can’t know our existence. The boy is alarmed and embarrassed; he stutters a reply but she quickly rectifies her mistake.
She continues with her hostilities but now I am glad for them; he seems to be getting aggravated and replies almost as brusquely as her.
However he is wrong, she does – for all intents and purposes – own this place and he has no right to be here. His race are notorious for their uncouth violation of nature. Looking at him, it is hard to imagine he can do any harm here but I know that where he has come others will surely follow.
My feelings are torn between the desire to know him, to know the world to which he belongs, and the inherent need to protect my surroundings. He contemplates her age, thinking that she is the same as him. I laugh internally as does she. Sixteen to us is the same as newborn to a pensioner; we are as old as the wind, as time itself, and have grown with the earth.
The boy turns to leave, grabbing at his…bike: two wheels built into a metal frame with a seat and handlebars. It is fast and agile and enables him to move smoothly over the land – almost like a bird in flight or a fish in water. I watch him leave, wishing that I had the means to follow, praying inexcusably for him to return.
It’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who wonders if there’s something more out there, something more tangible than just looking after the trees and springs that we’re bound to protect - something real. I mean don’t get me wrong, I appreciate nature, sure; the creative beauty of it surrounds us and I know, just as the others do, that it’s all part of an intricate weave, a beautiful loom of life where every living organism is a thread that adds to the whole breathtaking tapestry.
But that just adds to my argument. I mean, if the world can be this complex in just its basics then how is it that my life falls so short of any other meaning? Why is it that my existence is as shallow and one-dimensional as a puddle?
“How can you even think that?!” I hear a snort behind me and Echo dances nimbly into my line of vision.
“ You do realise it’s rude to eavesdrop on peoples thoughts?” I reply evenly. I’m not really annoyed with her; she may not understand me, but Echo is the only real friend I’ve had in a while.
“You know I can’t help it. If I could I would - I’d rather not listen to your thoughts, anyway. They’re so strange.”
I sigh. We’ve been over this before and there’s no use in trying to explain. Echo sashays closer and then drops deftly to the ground beside me. I am sprawled across the floor, my fingers twined in the mossy grass and my hair fanned out around my head, wet with dew.
The clearing is beautiful: it's one of my favourite places to come and think. The trees around are dense and the woody smell of oak mixed with the sweet pang of narcissus that grows in thick patches along the ground is enticing. Nearby, hidden through the trees, is a lake as smooth and transparent as glass and from it rises the soft sound of cicadas clear and soothing.
Echo scoots closer and lifts my hand from the ground, threading her fingers through mine. “I wish there was something I could do,” she says, her blue eyes gazing at me intensely. I smile and squeeze her hand gently to acknowledge the sentiment.
My face is reflected in her eyes, an almost mirror image of her own - though my eyes are shades of green instead of blue and my hair straight instead of wavy. This reflects our duties: Echo is bound to the lake; she watches over it maternally, allowing the small insects and animals to partake in its life-giving waters but warding off bigger animals and humans. I am bound to the woods, living amongst the trees as they grow and bend towards the sun, protecting their home. Thus her eyes reflect every cadence of blue that can be found in the depths of her waters while mine take on the lilts of grass and moss and ferns, which vary according to season.
Today the outer-most parts of her iris seem to compliment the sky, which is what I had been contemplating before her arrival – a soft crystal blue - cloudless and inviting. What would it be like, I wondered, to be a bird – to fly through the endless expanse of sky, free and untethered.
Echo suddenly bolts upright. “There is a boy by the lake,” she states before darting off into the trees. I follow lightly, curious as to how she will deal with him.
The boy sits on the edge of the embankment, staring avidly into the water. From this distance I can’t make out his features, but Echo is already near him sitting on a boulder waiting for him to notice. I move closer staying within the line of trunks to keep unnoticed. Now I can see his face and it astonishes me.
He is stunning. His golden blond hair undulates from his scalp framing his slightly broad, peach face and softening his Greek-straight nose. His eyes are the same oak brown as the trees in which I stand and his lips, overly full for a boy, are parted lightly in amazement. His figure is small and fragile-looking – a stark contrast to the overbearing musculature of the men in our race.
Echo calls out, her thoughts targeting my attention, shouting her disapproval of my admiration. The boy looks up and notes the frown in her voice, thinking it is aimed at him. He admires her appearance while she calls in her head for me to leave. I stay where I am, determined to know more about him and also to make sure she doesn’t deal with him too harshly.
She rises and speaks to him again, asking him to leave but he doesn’t seem to hear. She is annoyed but I ask her silently to be nice. He is examining her face, marvelling at her beauty – the colour of her eyes. This causes me an inexplicable pang of regret.
I long to rush over and join them, to talk to this boy, a human, belonging to the parts of the world I have never seen. Echo is listening to his thoughts and unthinkingly comments on them. I yell a warning in my head, they do not posses or understand our powers, and they can’t know our existence. The boy is alarmed and embarrassed; he stutters a reply but she quickly rectifies her mistake.
She continues with her hostilities but now I am glad for them; he seems to be getting aggravated and replies almost as brusquely as her.
However he is wrong, she does – for all intents and purposes – own this place and he has no right to be here. His race are notorious for their uncouth violation of nature. Looking at him, it is hard to imagine he can do any harm here but I know that where he has come others will surely follow.
My feelings are torn between the desire to know him, to know the world to which he belongs, and the inherent need to protect my surroundings. He contemplates her age, thinking that she is the same as him. I laugh internally as does she. Sixteen to us is the same as newborn to a pensioner; we are as old as the wind, as time itself, and have grown with the earth.
The boy turns to leave, grabbing at his…bike: two wheels built into a metal frame with a seat and handlebars. It is fast and agile and enables him to move smoothly over the land – almost like a bird in flight or a fish in water. I watch him leave, wishing that I had the means to follow, praying inexcusably for him to return.
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