The pond remains still. Its ripples unseen by even an attentive eye, not felt by the frolicking insects that spawn them. As the wind pushes ever weakly, the waves refuse to exist, and yet the rest of nature dances to the faint beat. Refusing to reveal its sacred sanctuary, the top of the pond only shows a reflection of the blue sky and the trees that tower over. Even as the leaves leave the branches they hang onto and descend gently upon the reflecting surface, the pond does not reply, it does not show. Instead, it remains a silent abode decorated by the gift of trees. Wayward waters, I shall call upon the pond for its wayward ways against the rest of the elements. Wayward wayward.

   I, too, am difficult to control, to predict, to comprehend. The gleaming mirror of the pond invites me to visit this sapphire stagnancy. What am I to do, out of another world, separated by a watery barrier. The answer to the pond is not pondered for even a moment in mind as I cast my line in an attempt to grasp at the loose life that lies beneath. My intrusion indicated not by ripples, but a fish float doing wayward bobs. It weaves and it waits, leaving me eagerly the same.

   Looking to the the red-topped ball, I see the mirrored view of the sky obstructed by none other than myself. Straight, well kept bangs, emerald eyes that contrasted the sapphire surface, and an enthusiastic smile. A common conclusion one would arrive to at a brief glance? Yes, that is indeed a cute girl.

   The breeze blew continuously, ever serene, as I stand still in wait. Waiting for life on the other end to beckon my call, to see me face to face. Or perhaps, face to fish. Nonetheless, it was an enduring endeavor I must power through. The act of not acting, to await the chance of reacting. In such a moment, I ponder in front of the pond, taking in the rest of the scenery and the surrounding seclusion that I am free to indulge in. Chirping birds calling to mingle, clicking cicadas that have just unearthed, and yet their first idea is to grace our Earth with their sounds. And of course, the subtle and gentle sounds of the pond water, not dictated by current, it is a rebellious waterway. Among the leaves, there are lily pads that dwell too. This suggests the presence of frogs, and yet not a bit of croaking can be heard.

   As the existence of life under the water continues to elude me, I asked myself... Why would I wait this long to catch a fish? Will it taste great? Will I plan to eat it? How would I? How could I?

   Perhaps it would turn out to be a giant? Perhaps a great fight between woman and fish will ensue? Do I only desire a small pump of adrenaline to seek satisfaction in this life? It is a perilous chain of questions. What lies under is all unknown to me as well, yet I still hope that there is still something left to hold onto. What is the true joy of fishing and dare I ask, what is the true joy of life?

   Such a destructive thought. It has no place to even exist. Perish the thought! Perish the thought! All my answer lies from only moving forward, lest I drown in the stagnant pool of beliefs. Despite it all, I question again... Is that an acceptable way to live life?

   What a dangerous question.

   My eyelids droop as time went on. My legs become tired of standing. My neck, my throat overcome with an unbearable itch, begging my head to rip and leap away, taking any sense of thought with it. Clawing through, I ask again, why am I here?

   And in a twist of events, the gleaming eyes that watch from the water answers me. The rod jerks forward, as if to force me back into the world again. I wince and I turn. I eye the fish float, violently yet steadily submerging, and though its movement is barely audible, all sorts of sounds play through my head. How exciting!

    And so I tug, I pull and I pray. Praying that I shall get my answer.