It's not always that I yearn for company when I go to the Lake. I have always had company whenever I've visited this place of beauty, tranquility, hilarity and love. However, I have never had many opportunities to visit it at the crack of dawn, or walk through it as the last ebbing blurs of twilight slowly disappear.
This is the time when fireflies light up the neat bushes with their visual sonnets. It is, in a word Wanderer, Beautiful. You see them light up countless bushes, and you see people walking around those bushes. A few now; friends walking around, guessing where they'd be a few months from then; middle-aged men lumbering together away from the hustle of their lives.
And when you take the turn at the vertex of the lake, the numbers increase. In the half darkness and shade you see more friends- a bunch with two guitars performing Sweet Child of Mine, grandpas with their little grandchildren, couples kissing with the backdrop of the lit-up bank thinking they are hidden, while knowing everyone knows their little secret.
It is a place vibrant with the secrecy of life, and the patient arrival of the fireflies in the sky that would tear through the deep, pink clouds and bear witness to everything that would happen there.
And no one else has any idea.