A Place of Privacy

There was something about the sound of it, something that Alexander liked. It was calming, soothing. He came to the brook often, whenever he felt scared or upset or just bored; it was his little place of privacy where no peering eyes from his public life could pry. He came here with a makeshift tent the time he decided to run away from home. He came here during a rain storm the day his mother died. The brook had always been there for him in his time of need. There was something consoling about the solitary moments spent with a thing of such beauty, a solace which cannot be attained even amidst the arms of one’s closest friends. Though he had many a friend and a loving family, and although he was outwardly charismatic and fun loving, what Alexander loved best, his true nature, was that of an introspective, introvertive child. Alexander cherished the precious moments he could spend alone sitting by the water with not a soul in sight, holding silent conversation with the wide expansive sky. He felt a close communion with nature, with the soft grass beneath him, the warm sun above him, with no other sound but the silent wind and the trickling brook. He stooped down over it, and as he watched his shimmering reflection ride the water’s surface, he reflected on life. He meditated on things that one could only think of in the silence of lonesome watch. He thought of philosophical questions, of meaningful events in the history of humanity, of his mathematical problems, of his books and ancient literature, of the nature of newborn infants, of reliance on God, of the silliness of society, of the unknown woman he would marry, of his troubles, of his creations, and mostly of others. These were the best times of Alexander’s life. These moments brought him the greatest joy, were the only times he felt overwhelming happiness and peace. Of all the places on earth, this gave him the greatest comfort and strongest safety. If home is where the heart is, as some people believe to be true, then Alexander had a mansion for his soul by that brook.

But now it has been many years since Alexander has been there. Alexander has moved away, started his life, made a family, created a living, and in the business of adulthood, forgot his brook. He has graduated with honors, married his wife, raised two children, written a successful novel, and has fought and enjoyed all the struggles and blessings of life. He wasn’t sure what it was, but one day, while tired and worn by the drilling of everyday life, feeling completely week and helpless against the angry tirade of the world, he thought of the brook. It is there that he now stands, thirty-three years since he last visited his secret place. He stands over the dried bed, looking upon what was once his palace, now a dilapidated ruins. The smooth rocks hold no hint of moisture, emerging from the ground as dried bones protrude out of the desert floor. Alexander searched frantically, desperately for his brook, scouring for any hint or remembrance of the long deserted creek, but the only water present was that rising to his eyes. As he stands above the empty ground, arms against his side, he feels a strange and surprising lack of emotions, as if void to all feelings, dead to all sentiment, dumb to the slumbering passions within. His brook is gone, but he will always remember it. There was something about the sound of it, something that Alexander liked.