The End begins. And the beginning commences.

There used to be a trail leading from my neighborhood to my high school. An old, worn, rocky, and beat up dirt trail, surrounded by tall, dead, dry grass 7 months of the year. The trail, made wider and smoother over the years by the daily trudges of high school students, looped downhill into a small grove of eucalyptus trees, until it finally terminated at the end of the trees, at the main road next to the high school. The trail had its own story to tell, had its own character. Perhaps I grew a bond with the trail, and the field surrounding it. Every school morning and afternoon, one could hear the shuffles of young feet, walking home from a rough day. I was a part of that.

The weather and the trail always complemented each other. Every time it rained, a new groove would be cut into the trail, and walkers would have to be careful to not slip in the mud. Winding through the eucalyptus grove, the water trickled down and carved a new spot in the trail, turning dirt into mud. Those were the days when the trail was rather empty, and I had it all to myself, and in the process, got my pants all muddy. Those were often gray and cold days, but when the sun came out, the droplets of water left on the grass glistened. It was on rainy days when the true color of the lot came out, enhanced by the sense of foreboding gray left behind from the earlier rain. When these true colors came out, all was warm again.

Every time the wind came, the characteristic sound of a creaking eucalyptus tree would echo. Would the tree fall? The trail was littered with remnants of fallen trees, spontaneous logs impeding the paths of would be walkers. And then after the wind subsided, fallen limbs and branches would be scattered through the entire area. It was a sight to behold indeed, almost, in fact, a masterpiece of nature, a painting created from the chaos of the fallen branches. The crackling of the branches as I stepped on them, was something I embraced and looked forward to. The art followed days when nature seemed to be screaming and yelling for pain through her wind. Such is how things work. One day, chaos would ensue, and the next, comforting tranquility.

Soon I began loving the wind. One afternoon, when I was walking home, the wind shuffled across the dead grass, bringing the grass surrounding the trail back to life. The grass began to dance in waves. It was as if the grass was waving to me and saying hello. The cool wind blew across my face, and it said hi to me too, in rough, discrete screams. A rich hodgepodge of colors decorated the sky, and I knew, nature itself was greeting me, desiring to be with me. And I desired to be with it too, so I cherished the moment. I smelled the grass, I listened to the clamor of sounds from the wind moving across the grass, and for a moment, I was still. I embraced the scene I was a part of, a member of. At last, I could be alone with nature and contemplate to myself.

And, of course, there were the sunsets. I loved standing at the top of the hill, and looking across, at the eucalyptus trees, off into the distance, as the sun waved goodbye. Clouds always added depth to the scene. When the clouds and the sun worked together, shades of amorphous pink would paint the sky; these were the times I took out my camera. The clouds curled and spun around in midair, flaunting their wisp and delicacy. At times they were cotton. Other times they were sheets. Other times they were bubbles. Whatever the occasion, there would often be many people who would come to the trail, and take their camera out, to own a piece of the art nature had created. The trees, grass, and the hills in the far distance were a silhouette, dark but peaceful and conclusive. After the sun left and darkness began to enclose the lot, people would leave, satisfied at their catch.

During summer, the grass would wither and dry up, and the landscape would be full of hopelessness. This trend would begin in spring, when the rains would stop, and the grass would thirst to death. Even here there was beauty to be found, in the annual summer thunderstorms that would pop in the distance. These clouds were mean and strong as they first popped over the eastern mountains, but would gradually decline and turn to cotton when the storm rained itself to death. Such a scene repeated itself daily during the active years. Thus during the summer months, I went out whenever thunderstorms were forecast to the east. The purpose: to observe the beauty of the fresh clouds, and the frailty of the dead ones. At times these clouds covered the sky, and turned the eastern horizon dark with uncertainty. It was a clear advantage that the lot was the highest land in the vicinity, affording sufficient views in all directions. Just as during the sunsets, I took for myself a piece of nature's piece of art.

Then fall and winter arrived with swiftness. Once again I'd be traversing the trail to go to school. I always looked forward to those months of the year, when the rains came, and new, fresh green grass sprouted where the dead grass once covered. And I always adored how the new rose from the old, how life emerged victorious in the face of despair and death. New grass always sparkled with vitality and energy in its green. Then, after spring came and the rain abated, the grass would die, and the green of the lot would once again be a field of dry dusty brown. The cycle continued year after year. But one year, the year before the final year, the rains did not come. Life did not sprout up again, and the green vitality that I had so looked forward to did not come. I questioned why such things were so heavily dependent on the capriciousness of the rains. I deduced that such is how things work.

The trail is a master storyteller. For even if I had the time and space to bring those stories to life, I would not be able to. Day after day, month after month, year after year, new heaps of stories would come along.

The next year, the last year, the rains came with force and the green vitality of the grass came back with full strength. But on December 21, 2007, the trail was closed off, and houses were to be built along the old trail. The green of the grass is still visible from the new route, but it is hidden behind a black iron gate. Come summer, the grass will turn brown, but the story hidden behind the brown will remain blocked behind the black iron gate. The eucalyptus trees are gone. Visible from the other side, the school, the lot is empty and secluded. The definition from the trees, the story of the lot, the vitality of the greenery, can no longer can be seen from the outside. Instead, on a side trail, some grass has escaped from the bounds of the black iron gate. This is where the hope lies.

One month later, on January 17, 2008, I walk through the new route to school and look at the grass. An old era ends for me today. A new era begins. For with rejection comes a new perspective. For with death comes new life. For all the chaos, there is tranquility. There is pain however.