Sensible Curiosity.

We've packed our bags and turned back twice, just to brave darkening roads coated in drizzle. We set out for a new experience, just to find the definition of happiness beneath canopies of green and a campfire.

I'll never forget watching the world go by. I've done my best to try to watch it spin since I was young, and it was common to do so. However, years of education haven't silence my desire to be still enough to see the earth shift around me. One millimeter, one centipede's scoot. As the tress swayed and the rocks sat eternally situated, I found my place on a beaten log, long victim to nature. Smoke of the arguably naturally and the chemical accumulated as the air moved with it, eventually disappearing. Something once interrupted by the swing of a hand or burst of lungs ceases to exist, and a childlike curiosity stirs up inside me.

Where does it all go?

Where is the empty space that absorbs evaporation and filtered smoke? There must be some mysteries I'll never understand, and I hope to God that there are; I never want this world to make sense. I always want to see nature as awe-inspiring and beautiful, without reason or pattern in the way its trunks twist as they grow. It's time like these that I know a hand has formed them; confirmation similar to peaking through an art school window. I never have been able to form something shapeless into something beautiful. Maybe it's because I never want to understand what it's like to form beauty. I'd rather stare open-mouthed, eyes wide at a concept I'd rather praise than grasp.

Everything about the streaks of green with golden-brown paths screamed perfection. Fallen branches crack under clumsy footsteps; leaves crunch as a grip's lost and I tumble. Maybe this is my part, my exact path. Warming bark, bending plastic, dodging snakes. Future generations will find my tattered shade of blue like tiny, dirt-coated beads. Your hands traced over dust as you hunted; the same spark of imagination behind your sun-lit eyes. I pictured your mind racing back to when they fell, who left them, why they did it. You're eager to show and tell, and the spirit sets my mind free. Someone who hasn't forgotten that children grow up, but shouldn't forget to imagine.

That same log, that same honest man. Side by side without words, only minds full of wonder and a trace of curiosity. Friends close at hand, I shut my eyes behind darkened lenses and stilled myself slowly. My legs sunk, hanging above the ground, and slowly my upper body rested onto supportive hands. I'd stop the world like I'd always dreamed. I'd do it with you in mind.

I've never seen a river between rows of trees, or a steep fall to its shores, aesthetically merciless. From a fire lit with twigs and leaves to one roaring among the rocks of a cave, the light played second to modified temperature. One that brought skin flirting with goosebumps to a smooth content. My sanctuaries aren't embellished with glass and statues, but exactly the way they've been grown. Statues that have twisted with wear, untouched by a chisel. This is spiritual. A glance to my left, and an instinctive smiles proves that everything makes sense.

For however long we got lost, curiosity became a luxury instead of a burden. This is what it takes to watch the world turn.