Someone once told me that reality, that life, could in fact be the figment of one's own imagination. I considered this for a while. Then I saw a moving picture of an island in the midst of what appeared to be dawn. And I wrote about it.

Amidst the vast wonderment of the aesthetic, the landscape endears itself to you with its simplicity.

A clandestine wasteland for the definitively sublime, rolling hilltops and bottomless caverns embed themselves amongst alkaline ripple, lending shape, color, light and shade from sphere of sky into deeper waters. Anchored by filmy dew, morning is herald by nothing save the close saline silence of hinterland. Plagued by irregular shadows, the eye views only shards at a time. Sparse shafts of marred driftwood shift breathlessly in season-less bluster. A buoyant gull in the distance, perhaps only a shadow loses altitude, then lifts. When the coral hue of sun breaches the horizon, the stark ebony plains shed their skin; tangents of evergreen in the mist. Ensconced by ease of form, a mind for beauty flexes east-bound to greet the sun. This kaleidoscope of indiscriminate shade betrays awe beyond reason, beyond comprehension, beyond contemplation.

My mind cannot swell enough to meet this grandeur, this uninterrupted grace.

If the world could only see it, they would cease to exhale for fear of tainting it with breath, with sullen humanity. I have never known such stillness, such weightless, perfect poise. I feel as close to heaven as I should ever hope to be. This place cannot be of my creation.

It is too beautiful.

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