The road by the river
Or how the most trivial thoughts are able to trigger something.
There was a road by the river. It had been built many years ago, following the course of the river along its northern margin, as it collapses into the ocean. It was a well-kept road, and a busy one too, especially during the rush hours; but more often than not, it provided not only a fast way to return to the city, but also a scenic and rather pleasant one. Most people seemed to enjoy it in those warm, sunny days of Summer, when the sky is sky-blue, when the sea is sea-blue, and when the sandy patches between the road and the waterline are crowded with people enjoying themselves. It was a nice sight, no doubt about it: the river and the sea, the cliffs on the other side, far away and yet always there, the endless sea up until the straight line of the horizon. He, however, prefered to ride down that road during storms, when there's no one in the sand, when the waves swallow the beaches with their merciless pounding, swinging back and forth with unkept violence. When the roaring sea is gray, and when the horizon fades as if the ocean and the sky merge in turmoil, pouring rain on the ravenous sea, cutting the dusk with the blinding light of lightning strikes, sharp as knives. In those moments, as he watched the storm consuming itself in wind and fire over the ocean, he felt small, insignificant as he faced the raw power of the elements; but he also felt at peace with himself, as nature itself revealed it's terrible beauty only for himself. No one is willing to endure a storm just to watch it, he thought. If only they knew what they're missing.
There was a road by the river. It had been built many years ago, following the course of the river along its northern margin, as it collapses into the ocean. It was a well-kept road, and a busy one too, especially during the rush hours; but more often than not, it provided not only a fast way to return to the city, but also a scenic and rather pleasant one. Most people seemed to enjoy it in those warm, sunny days of Summer, when the sky is sky-blue, when the sea is sea-blue, and when the sandy patches between the road and the waterline are crowded with people enjoying themselves. It was a nice sight, no doubt about it: the river and the sea, the cliffs on the other side, far away and yet always there, the endless sea up until the straight line of the horizon. He, however, prefered to ride down that road during storms, when there's no one in the sand, when the waves swallow the beaches with their merciless pounding, swinging back and forth with unkept violence. When the roaring sea is gray, and when the horizon fades as if the ocean and the sky merge in turmoil, pouring rain on the ravenous sea, cutting the dusk with the blinding light of lightning strikes, sharp as knives. In those moments, as he watched the storm consuming itself in wind and fire over the ocean, he felt small, insignificant as he faced the raw power of the elements; but he also felt at peace with himself, as nature itself revealed it's terrible beauty only for himself. No one is willing to endure a storm just to watch it, he thought. If only they knew what they're missing.
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