Throughout the Millenium, the Ishatucknee Lakes have been a haven for writers, poets, and creatives of all time have been know to flock to- inspired by the sense of wonder in the varying weather there or the utter loneliness of the place. The lake was amazing beautiful because of the way the water reflected the light of the sun towards the flowers and tree that grew in its wake. They couldn’t quite say the exact reason, but it was.

On a particular winter, on a particular day, at a particular hour, a man brought himself to the lakes. He was a poet of twenty, barely passing the cusp of adulthood yet he had known great pain in his life - that it simply bled into his words. He knew the impact that his words had inside himself and his youth allowed him to be brutally honestly beyond limits of society.

Many artists appreciate the nature when walking and so did this young man. He was an anxious pacer - not a mop-able stroller. So this walks around the area were never quiet - his tramping footfalls causing the snaps of twigs. He had never feared that his un muffled steps would be his demised. Til a day of his travels. He looked in the lake staring at himself, seeing the curve of his pupils and the way his hair matted against his scalp - a snap, a scream and he was no more. No one ever saw him again. This same place continues to attract creatives and is often the last where they are seen.

Authors note - I’ve always wondered why the great artists always died young wether suicide or other reasons I think I need a way to explain the toll that reflection takes on people through a place.