In this place where I sit I have borrowed my view from thousands before me and yet seen more in a day than some who forget this view is our gift; unlike the two hundred year old cherry tree, or the stone reminders of the cholera plague and the sky heavy and burdened by the clouds so dark, I will be here only for a blink of time. I see no foreign land, despite it not being my home country. The eye knows the impression before me, I am moved when I raise my curtains each day and it has never been the same view in nine years despite my sitting in the same place, at the same time day after day. This lake has showered me with beauty as tears stung my face, as severe physical pain enveloped my last good taste of the day and the reigning cherry tree has never winced once when the storms off the North Sea take the lake's gray, frigid water up and form it into foaming waves. At night he whistle of the feirce winds roll though this old farmhouse and thorugh my dreams. My pain is permanent, part of me both physical and emotional. I long to be part of the strong cherry tree, the lake and the rich ancient soil trodden by decdes of animals, some not so good, some human. My eyes study the changes of the clouds, the barren tree line and reach for the dense green forest across the water. I am part of this view, this moment and although my heart leaks with silent secrets, I choose to share only through my view, my eyes in this second.