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written by: Jack Wolfe Frost
Dawn, and silence. I look at my refection, a perfect mirror in the pond, as no breeze stirs, and my morning reverie is left alone to itself.
A single tear – of a broken past – falls from my face to the water. Fascinated, I see, but not hear, the small splash it makes, and watch the ripples it makes spread outwards. And I think, as I watch those ripples. My past has no existence, except that which I give it. It has no power, except that which I give it. And yet the ripple continues to widen, as it slowly spreads across the still pond. It carries potential to the future, a future which maybe as yet unknown, also holds, waiting, a potential.
As the ripples reach the tall bulrushes in the pond, I perceive a myriad of small interacting ripples bounce back. And I see now, small as they may be, that those ripples will continue forever.
I smile, as my mind changes. The past is gone. The future can be what I make it. I smile at the difference such a small tear can make.