The cool air tingles against my skin as I step closer to the edge of the lake. The mountain watches over everything, its snow-capped peak glowing softly under the pastel hues of the evening sky. The colours above melt into one another—pinks and purples brushing up against the deepening blue, like a quiet conversation between day and night.
I kneel down, running my fingers across the wildflowers dotting the ground—white daisies, purple lupines, and little pops of yellow that seem to smile up at me. Their petals are soft, almost weightless, like the air itself has shaped them. The grass beneath is cool and slightly damp, grounding me to the earth.
The lake mirrors it all—the flowers, the sky, the mountain. Its surface ripples gently as if breathing, breaking the stillness but never disturbing the quiet. I take a deep breath, and the air smells clean, fresh, with the faint sweetness of blossoms carried on the breeze.
The world feels alive here—not loud or overwhelming, but alive in a way that’s easy to miss if you don’t stop to notice it. The soft rustling of the flowers, the distant trickle of a stream, the crisp silence of the mountain—all of it wraps around me, pulling me into this moment.
I close my eyes and let it all settle in—the colours, the textures, the smells, the sounds. The kind of stillness that reminds me that even when nothing’s moving, everything is alive. Everything is connected. And here, at the edge of the lake, it feels like I’m part of it all.
