A Treatise on Life

Deft fingers pulled the slender, grime-caked volume from his shelves. The book was tattered and dog-eared, but the faded gold lettering, marking it to be a 'journal', was still visible. He leafed through the pages, smiling as certain passages caught his eye, grinning at his old antics. Younger years, happier times. Fond memories of better days. He wasn't sure why he had chosen to revisit his old journal. Perhaps he needed it now, more than ever. A stranger in a strange land, surrounded by plots and intrigue. The human and the superhuman. Natural, supernatural... things that went beyond him. Always a sense of an impending storm, always a danger. Potent, unseen.

Things that reminded him how small he really was.

The writer drew in a shallow breath, dipping the slender nib of his quill into the ink, setting pen to paper.

Life.

Life is pain. No joy can last forever. Just as spring's first flower fades, so too will beauty pass away with time. Mist and shadow consume the mind, dampen the wit and dull the blade. Hearts will be broken, and love will be lost. All will fade.

What, then, is the point in living? The answer is right before us. The point of living is life itself. To revel in it while it lasts, to appreciate each precious, fleeting moment.

Never turn a blind eye to beauty, never give in to bitterness and apathy. With each ending, there is a new beginning. With each morning, the world is reborn. Time to start living. Time to take time, for spring will turn to fall - in almost no time at all.

Smiling softly, Reynaud closed the tattered tome and collapsed heavily onto his cot, stretching back his shoulders and closing his eyes. The revolution could wait; his work tonight was done.