I know it’s a little cliche, and that saying so is cliche, but for me the best place to reflect is without a doubt the gazebo. It’s early now and I’m already there, treating myself to a cigarette because I just spent the whole night studying. Dhall doesn’t open for another half hour, and the sun hasn’t even neared the horizon; the black sky could pass for midnight. There isn’t any noise right now, maybe the noise of cold if there is one, yet I neglect to put on my headphones; the quiet is nice. A think, swirling fog creeps over the lake, illuminated by the full moon. It is like a raincloud in itself, and I’m sure it could make rain if it were but a few feet higher from the ground.
It is mid-day now and I find myself back at my spot, talking on the phone to my grandmother to whom I have not spoken to in a few weeks. I am glad to say I would not do this in another situation, but could not help but find myself straying as I’m on the phone; the lake is too nice. A parent and her toddler are throwing bread to the ducks, as the grumpy geese make their way over to see what they can plunder. The sun’s rays are doing their worst on the thin layer of ice on the water; it recedes ever so slowly. A few geese who were not enticed by the bread were busy snacking their way through the slush that separates ice from water; I assume they like the texture.
I am sitting on my bed now, but I wish I were at the gazebo. Nothing would please me more than to be able to sleep out there, every night. Maybe when it gets warmer. I admit to myself that my place of reflection could be more original, but there must be a reason for so many people liking it.