I wonder who left the cargo there, with no sailor or passenger in sight. Was it jettisoned, and those who dropped it there, just flew away into the horizon? Hats off to that white dinghy, looking lost, yet waiting for someone to appear. Something far more intriguing than that, is the red stool under the tree. Was it placed there for an overseer?
A strange feeling grips me. I sense the presence of invisible people there, who feel as helpless as I do. These are people who have been unable to detach themselves from the scenario. I wait for them to burst upon the scene and take charge. They might come charging from behind the trees, or descend from the blue sky. The red stool exists for a special purpose – of retaining a separate identity in the colors of the outwardly calm scene.
I pull out my device, and start recording the similarities with my life. Where do I place myself in this story? Or do I just sit back and wait for a new story to emerge? I hope to find a better role in it, with more power than that of an idle onlooker. I start writing ….
Inspired by Sunday Photo Fictioner