Sometimes I wonder if there’s a spark

A full moon and vast array of stars glinted off of a vast lake. A familiar lake, as the author took the same walk he took, night in, night out. An absolute silence befell the mountains, all that could be heard was the rhythmic, dusty thumps of his feet meandering through the dirt path carved out.

Everything the same, nothing different. The same path, the same time, and he was content. The rhythm of his life was consistent–mind you, up until the last few days. He began to feel a growing emptiness, a shadow he found himself staring into far too often. He was staring into it right then, until he heard a dusty thump unlike his own.

This dreary train of thought was suddenly replaced by an overcoming fear.

We are the only people who grow flowers out of bones

Frozen in terror, he shakily turned his head around, a new fear filling his head. Someone else was here. His mind rushed with conflicting thoughts. Perhaps this is the change I need in my life. People are too unpredictable. I have a good feeling about this one in particular. That’s conjecture. 

Eventually he built up the courage to say something–a terse “Hello,” to be specific. This was met with an unsteady “H-hi.”

“And you’re here because?”

“I, I’m an artist. I moved here for seclusion…people confuse me.”

Through an awkward, stiff, yet heartfelt conversation, the two realized they were entirely similar and absolutely unlike, in such a way they balanced each other perfectly. They reached a crossroads and the author bade the artist farewell…

Where I go, will you still follow?