I am standing alone on a stepping stone made of clay. It is resting just above water in the middle of a calm, grand lake. There are six more clay stepping stones tracing the path from the gray lakeshore to where I now stand. I turn slowly on my stone, like a music box ballerina, spinning to an endless tune. The music stops.
Colors fade into black and white. I stood on that shoreline and looked across the lake. The lakeshore in the distance invited me to join its sun-touched beach, shaded by trees rich with varieties of sweet exotic fruits. It faintly promised me new paths worth discovering, that would lead my feet to softer sands and clearer waters. I listened.
I searched for materials and built large clay stones that would help me reach the other side. My hands ached endlessly while the sweat dripped into my attentive eyes. Both the sun and moon observed my work. I constructed seven stones, which carried me to the middle of the glassy lake. The music begins again.
I spin to the disappointed lakeshore waiting for my arrival. The music loses its hopeful charm, distorting into an awful melody of complaints and confusion. The gleam the distant lakeshore once boasted is now dull and overshadowed by dark rain clouds. It is not satisfied with my clay stones. I must turn back.
Water begins to run over the top of my stones. They cannot support my weight. Tears are quietly shed as I sink with my clay stones and gaze at the lakeshore that is unaware of my struggle. Large ripples appear on the lake's cool surface as I cry, but they won't help me build a bridge. I'll have to swim back to the gray shore.
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