Nature Was Staring At Me All Along

A MASSIVE FLOWER IN MY NEIGHBOUR'S GARDEN

So, I used to walk. A lot. For, like, a hundred metaphorical years. Just plodding the same boring route in my neighborhood. And despite allegedly loving nature, I somehow managed to never actually see it.

No golden sunrises. No poetic sunsets..Just concrete. And pollution. It was commuting through suburbia’s beige anxiety.

Trees? None. Sky? A polluted mess, sliced up by power lines and the lingering dread of a 9-to-5.

Birds? Technically present, but mostly just pigeons locked in some turf war over a mouldy McNugget.

The whole experience was less “mindful journey through nature” and more “hamster wheel with better shoes.”

Then I started hiking. Like, actual hiking. "Out in nature"-nature. And that’s when things shifted.

Suddenly, every tree looked like a wise elder, ready to drop forest lore if I just shut up long enough to listen. There were vibes. And, dare I say, feelings.

Flowers? Pure theatrical chaos. “Look at me! I’m delicate and aggressively coloured!”

Clouds? Drifting around like bored billionaires with zero responsibilities.

Birds? Oh, the birds. Even the Hadedaas—those shrieking, unhinged sky goblins who treat our roofs like a public toilet—somehow became… poetic. Still loud. Still unhinged. But poetic.

THE WORLD AWAKENING AND THE MOON RETIRING

That’s the thing no one tells you about hiking. It doesn’t just keep you moving. It rewires you. It sharpens your senses. It messes with how you see the world.

Suddenly you’re the weirdo who stops mid-sentence and gasps audibly at a tree trunk.

You stop rushing. You start noticing. And once you’ve really seen the world in all its raw, weird, glorious detail—you can’t go back.

Now when I walk the same route I’ve trudged for what feels like forever, and I look up, there it is: that massive, majestic tree I ignored for years.

Turns out the birds haven’t just been screaming nonsense this whole time—they’ve been yelling motivational slogans. Aggressively.

Flowers, clouds, sunrises, sunsets—they were all right there, but I somehow missed it for years.

It's true, the second I glance down? It’s different. The pavement just feels...wrong now. Too neat. Like nature’s holding cell while you wait to be let out again.

But still,  if I could time-travel, I’d throttle my past self and scream, 'Hey genius, you're missing the whole point!'"

But that's the thing about nature. It doesn’t go anywhere. It just waits—quietly, stubbornly—until you are ready to see it.