A Walk of a Dreamer

An old pond
A frog jumps in —
Sound of water.

- Matsuo Bashō

I was at school. A friday, the weekend way closer than ever. I just had to survive the last lesson of the week. But first I had a 40-minutes break.
Walking into the school liberary, smiling friendly to the librerians (they do actually know me by name these days, believe it or not), and searching for something to do.
Suddenly I get my hands on a copy of National Geographic, it’s new and shiny. The photography magazine I usually read was already read a few times too many. I look through it, just like any other piece of glossy paper, when my eyes cache some familiar Japanese stairs. A quiet verse is in the front of the article, not on the top but in the front. An article about the first Haiku master, about a culture and a great deal of soundless philosophy. And I was lost.
- Into the beauty, and the sense of calmness. Not some sort of drowsy sleepyness, but a kind of sensing the world around us, and bringing this into words. Grasping light, so to speak, trying to reach what can not be touched, but still be able feel its presence.
- The essence of life, death and whatever might be.