An autumn evening: dry leaves falling from the trees, the sun setting down, leaving an orange sky, amidst the chirping of some cranes and pigeons.
A man, with a net in his side, a hat on his head, and a fishing rod in his lap, sat down by the river praising nature, of what it could do, of what it could show.
He was a fisherman and lived in a small bamboo cottage beside the river. Nature was the one who fed him, taught him to eat by himself, and to cherish what nature gave him for his life.
The fisherman had no one to live by, since his birth. His dad was a soldier in the army and had died as a patriot in a war. His mother died minutes after she gave birth to him.
He was nurtured for a couple weeks in the hospital and then was sent to spend his childhood in an orphanage.
Today, he is an old man, in his 60's; he didn't live by his past, or prayed for his future. He was a man of sheer will and great wisdom and that was enough for him to survive.
The river was his giver. The river was a boon from nature, which he used wisely with dedication and order.
The man was a help to the river too, a friend to live by in frosting winters, a companion, a spectator for the river.
That would have been like any other friendship, but the river had no life, no death. He, the fisherman, was a man, a puppet of God.
Still, the river felt alive at times, it was as if it was a way for him to talk to the river, nature, everything.
It was funny imagining him something like a prophet, it was so so unusual, still, his life was one with nature, the giver, and one with God.
What kept him surviving was his battle or his relationship with God. He would fight him or worship him, he would talk to the almighty. He was a man of wisdom, time states so.
He was a man with power over himself, time states so. For he was a man with the knowledge time had carried over the eons.
He was a man capable of frightening God, a man worthy of praise from the almighty himself. He was one to companion with, he was the ultimate homo sapiens you would meet.
He carried the blood of a soldier, a warrior.
One who fought wars on borders of a nation and other who warred at borders of life; they were the ones who created him, founded him, and God was one who built him,
worthy of being one who was worthy of carrying the pride, the might of being one who defines man.
The evening was to pass by. Fish were diving and laughing with the river, and the man only watched them, with no envy, no greed.
He had enough for God to keep him alive, and by that limit passed, he was no one to interrupt the being of nature, he thought so.
He sat there, waiting, for the Sun to complete its journey to the west, he smiled then, he thanked nature for all it gave him.
The sun set, and the fisherman walked to his small cottage, to say a goodbye to nature's aura for that night. It was now his turn to keep him surviving, while nature went on a quest of itself.
It was now God's turn, to include him on the "to-survive list".
His was a story that kept on repeating, day by day. He was periodic and that made his story common, although fascinating nonetheless.
It was him, nature, and God that was on his forehead every day. And now, he was spending some alone with God, like in every other night.
The fish shimmered in the fire, the last drops of water vapoured, and it was ready. Not a fancy, styled, plated food, but an unwrapped gift from God.
The man, he had seen nature, he had seen himself, but had not seen God though. The third horseman of keeping a man alive was invisible.
God was mischievous, a being of supreme power, a shy one maybe, for he was not to show up to shake hands with man.
For God was the almighty, no matter how much he is loved or hated, or how he looks or smells or walks or eats. God needed no friend, he was a companion of his own.
Still, he always had the fisherman by his side, a brilliant friend. But neither God's friend knew where he lived or what he did.
The fisherman only knew that God was watching his every step, scripting his every move, and smiled in his own way. God was omnipresent. He is supreme.
Perhaps the fisherman himself was his God. He himself was what kept him alive, he was one of wisdom, one of power, and certainly one capable of having control over himself.
He was one who wrote his own destiny. He was his supreme, he was the ultimate one who kept him alive. Still, God differed from him.
Some would call God an inner self, a third eye, the inner voice, the soul, but I guess God is someone way powerful than mere beliefs and religion. God created man and man didn't create God.
God is no man, nor a part of him, he is something impossible to understand. He is fine the way he is, as fine as strange, as fine was ungraspable. He is mystic.
He is supreme, but he lies within man. Man himself is a God of his own. But then, time states that God is no man, and man is no God.