There was once a young woman. She lived in a world gone drab and dead with its own repetetive nature, drowned in its own material ways. She would look at the world around her, and wonder where the life and beauty in her people had gone. Standing alone at the end of every day, she would gaze in wonder at the spectacle of mother nature's cinematic visions of colour as the clouds burned bright with luminous shades of reds and oranges, slashed and smudged across rich blues and turquoises. She would hear the simple song, a wondrous harmony of birds and rustling of trees and leaves, and she would look at the people passing her by in everyday life and puzzle over why their hearts were not filled with the same awe, why their faces were a grey reflection of the concrete and metal jails they condemned themselves to.
The young woman grew older. And with her age, she felt the burden of mortal life weighing her soul down until she too trudged with the masses, part of the same faceless grey, doing the same usless nothing everyday. Only once in a while, would she remember to look up to the sky and see its wonder, and her heart fluttered, seeing the birds diving and swooping in their freedom, dancing in the playful breeze.

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