The Fisherman

He trailed his line into the water, watching the ripples make circles on the calm surface that distorted his image. He let his consciousness flow through his line into the water.

Into the world.

He saw smiles, tears, hopes, dreams, and reams of unpleasant feelings. Glimmers of love, tempered by vast tracts of need, selfishness and greed.

Yet, the Fisherman fishes. For the perfect feeling. For the perfect hope. For the perfect symbol of humanity, however jaded it might have become. He searches for true giving, and generosity.

It might never come, but who knows that goes through the mind of the fisherman? One who angles through all thoughts and dreams. In a land where he glides on the surface of our consciousness in the perennial early morning. In solitude. In a land where all you can see is your own reflection, but that is due to lack of perspective - you see not a reflection of yourself, but of what the world sees as you.

The entity has no conception of existentialism - it doesn't believe in anything, for it need not. It has no hunger for justification, no need to prove importance, no requirement of anything but the simple desire to fish in the waters it is in. To peruse. To discover. Something hidden from the depths, perhaps.