Little drops of golden sunshine filled his hitherto empty bowl. He looked up at the sky, his eyes shining with joy and intelligence, clear as they were because of the innocence that he still played host to. In his eyes was the reflection of the sky, which was still crisp and true in its azure hue. He felt warmth on his skin, but he did not know where it came from or why he felt it. The warmth made him feel like more than a collection of chemicals and organic substances—the warmth assured him that he had a right to hold that bowl and that it should, at least occasionally, be filled with the golden drops. A stream flowed nearby—he heard its constant gentle murmur; as if the stream was conversing meekly with everything that happened to be along its path, as if it was whispering little secrets without knowing whether little secrets can be whispered safely. The boy started walking towards the murmur, curious as he was about where the soft rolling sounds were coming from. The azure sky swiftly turned into a ceiling of dark green, with only a few sieves in it that barely allowed the sunlight to touch the bed of dried leaves, fallen fruit, and traveller’s footprints that was the forest floor. The boy still had his bowl, and he kept looking at it, sometimes to admire the golden drops, sometimes to make sure they were still there, and sometimes to simply feel secure among the trees that towered above him and the jungle that was breathing its intimidating chaos through the damp wind. As his steps—sometimes hesitant, sometimes bold, sometimes hopeful—led him along a path that the bewildering complexity of the jungle did not let him understand, he began to perspire, and the cold drops of sweat reminded him that he was alone in this little adventure of his. A few wandering moments later, he stopped to catch his breath and comprehend what he was doing. He wanted to know why the forest was aloof and unhelpful, almost proud of its power to perplex. Just as fear and reason began to win the incessant war that they waged on courage and innocence, he heard sweet music from one of the trees. The ceiling began to appear darker than before; but this time, it was because the darkness was in contrast with a brilliant crisp ray of light, with a touching glow that made all the demons born of the insensitive darkness of the jungle and conceived by its incomprehensible chaos instantly turn to dust. The glow belonged to an angel—a being of captivating beauty, with an intoxicating fragrance, with eyes that seemed to shine and bring out purpose in a meaningless existence, a warm embrace to melt a thousand cold winters, and a smile that for a moment, seemed to be the only believable truth in the forest that existed only to deceive. The angel drew him into flight, and even though he did knew he would never be able to find his way back to where he began, he gave himself no choice but to follow.
When his eyes opened, he was by the stream that continued to meekly murmur its little secrets. He tried to remember the sweetness and exhilaration of his flight. He did. But his bowl was gone, and so was the angel. The stream continued to whisper; the pure untouched stream was calling out to him to look into the gracefully flowing mirror of truth. In the mirror, he found a rugged man with scores of scars running across his face and a body that was now sprinkled with bruises, the souvenirs from his journey through the forest. And there he sat, looking into the stream, listening to it, and making peace with his bruises; he, the guardian of innocence and adventure.
