I stand there on the dock. The morning is cool, cool enough to necessitate a sweatshirt but not cold enough to see your breath. It’s silent. The water is smooth and motionless, mist gently rising from it in dancing clouds. Beyond the lake there is a hill lush with the deep green foliage of well-established trees. The golden morning sun just beginning to touch it. The park seems to be breathing with me, sleepily starting the day, not in a hurry. Tar Hollow is not untouched by man and commercialism, but to those who know no other way, it can seem that way. One can enjoy falling asleep to the sounds of crickets, and smell the rotting leaves under a canopy of bright green while also enjoying the luxury of running water and electric lights. Every year since I was fifteen, I have spent one week escaping reality here. Time seems to stop when I enter the park, but, somehow, I always leave a different person, rejuvenated and recharged even after working harder in a week than I do all year. I can get lost in this timelessness. I long for this respite, but all things end, and I must leave this place tomorrow. I must leave this haven and return to the real world, to the noise, to the traffic, to the frustration of staying in one place, to unfulfilling tasks. I wish that I will find something that brings me as much peace as this place. Until then, I must wait another year.
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