The Perfect Moment at Noontide — Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Zarathustra runs alone for hours and enjoys his solitude. At noon, when the sun stands straight above him, he passes an old bent tree embraced by a vine full of yellow grapes. He reaches for the fruit, then decides sleep matters more. He lies in the grass, keeps his eyes open, and watches the tree while rest takes him.

Half awake, he tells his heart to hush because the world feels perfect. Sleep touches him lightly, like wind on water. His soul stretches out, tired from too much ripeness and good things. He compares himself to a ship that has found the calmest shore and needs only a spider thread to hold it in place.

He learns again that the smallest things make the deepest happiness: a breath, a glance, a lizard's rustle. Joy laughs like a god at noon. Then he startles awake, sees the sun still overhead, and rises as if from strange drunkenness. The perfect moment passes, but it has taught him how little bliss can weigh. His soul fights sleep and wakefulness, wanting to hold the golden round moment one beat longer. He asks when heaven will drink his soul back, then rises and calls his old legs to work again.