п»їMy Special Place

I have a place that I head to more than once each day. It is just like a safe haven, a spot of peacefulness. I have always had this kind of place and i also am the only person who is aware where it can be. Whenever I actually visit, it truly is night, for your is the time when I go through the safest. The moon is seen, guarding the sky and earth, just like a warrior of silver. In this safe haven of mine, it is always spring or fall. It truly is never to hot, like it is in summer, and it's never cold, like in winter. The air is usually forever clean and tastes while sweet while ten pounds of sweets in a five pound sack. There is a pond surrounded by a forest. The pond abounds with creatures that keep me personally company the moment I'm lonesome. The water is apparent, warm to touch, and always a little bit steaming; increasing the air that builds up above this. The constant misting seems to ebb and flow out within the pond, just like the smoke off still popular embers of the fire. The mist is light and mysterious, nevertheless always inviting. The heat from the pond is usually fed by hot early spring running near by, under the surface. There is a lonely sycamore tree alongside the pond. It is branches reach out over the pond as if it was trying to take the skies and the normal water at the same time, but changed their mind many times in the process. This creates various perfect seating for examining drawing, and reclining. One particular dip inside the branch should go so low to the water that I may lay upon it and speak to the pets in the fish pond. Every once in a while there is a soft breeze that shakes the branches gradually, lulling me personally to sleep. There are birds usually twittering inside the dense forest surrounding the pond; they sing music of looking, longing, and loss. Their particular songs intertwine, as if the birds want to write the tune to my own songs.

When my own thoughts change dark and sad, my place becomes as if it really is dark and sad also. I cannot count number the number of instances that I possess sat for the bank in the pond and cried into the water. Upon these situations, the mist seems to change melancholy, as though it was a classic friend...


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