Picture 1: Lost Man Project. (1 October 2013). American elm. [Picture]. Retrieved from http://www.lostmanproject.com.
As is my custom, I now sit reclined in my armchair basking in the warmth of the rising morning sun and reading my newspaper. I methodically cast my gaze from article to article, page to page, taking brief interruptions to sip from my warm mug of tea. Gentle wisps of steam rise from it like flames. They engulf my face and playfully pull their arms around my glasses, so as to encourage me to return to sleep. The warmth and the prospect of more rest is tempting, but there is much to do.
I take my last sip of tea and tenderly place the paper on my desk. The crisp autumn air greets me with a brisk sharpness as I leave through the doors of my home. The lulling sound of the colourful autumn leaves dancing in the wind puts emphasis on the desolate street on which I walk. There is not a soul in sight – something that makes me feel a little bit more vulnerable than usual. But the sights of my youth – the park I used to play in as a child, the old elm trees I used to climb in my adolescence, and the paths that I so favoured for my long walks – encourage me to continue.
I reach a small café on the corner of the street. The cool weather has drawn all the conversations indoors to the crowded tables. I am about to take my place in line when I feel a soft touch on my shoulder. I turn around to see the familiar face of an old friend. We spend the morning chatting away, catching up on times and reliving past experiences. When I return to my modest room, it feels smaller than ever.