This morning, there was frost on the plateau. It cast the illusion of a soft veil, gently and carefully laid down on the tippy-tops of the land's tall, and once green, wild grass.
The frost sparkled brilliantly in the dawn's early light.
Twice, while driving on a serene stretch of the plateau's windy roads, my car loudly announced with the most irritating of bells interrupting my untroubled thoughts, that the temperature outside was below 37 degrees.
Winter, at least its early and less intimidating part, is here.
I curiously wondered how many times I had driven this road. Has it now been a 1,000? It feels like it. I know this road so well that I am convinced that I can drive it with my eyes closed. Though of course, never would I dare try.
The plateau is the most beautiful place in the world.
Yes, I am aware that surely, there are more beautiful places but their kind of beautiful speaks to me on a surface level and not down deep. The plateau is my thunderbolt, as I have recently learned after rereading the Godfather. In the Godfather, being struck by love's thunderbolt was the equivalent to a silent, potent, and bone-crushing force that struck without warning, scorching and marking the soul with an all-consuming knowledge of destiny.
Swoon.
My car took another windy bend and in a timeless state, I drove up and down, up and down, the rolling road lined with old massive oak trees growing twisted fingers. I know these trees hold secrets from the past. Centuries of stories stored within their fibrous reaching roots, too powerful to ever fade or be lost. I don't hear the stories, but I feel their presence.
It is enough.
The ancient and historic land holds permanence and a promise that though likely changed by coming floods, winds, and wild fires, it will endure for the generations that will follow me. Every day, I try to leave just a bit of myself here for those people. Praying that they, too, will be struck by the thunderbolt and take good care of this special place.
My random thoughts carelessly moved to others, as intrusive thoughts are designed to do, and I recalled a recent conversation wherein the person I was speaking with was surprised, and doubting, when I declared myself an introvert.
I was startled and mystified by the person's surprise.
They don't know the inner-me.
Or...
Wait...
Could it be me that doesn't know myself?
The thought amuses me and my mind-chatter drifts back to the Godfather and the passage wherein the Godfather, Vito Corleone, experiences his final breaths and whispers the only beautiful thought expressed throughout his entire character's arc...
"Life is so beautiful."
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