The little Pleasantville (but in pastel colours) where I am temporarily residing is surrounded by a much more authentic village, old little wooden cottages (most of them beautifully restored and now containing all modern conveniances) interspersed among wide fields.
A chilly wind is still blowing across this brownish-grey landscape but the still-weak April sun is persistent and the colour green will soon be taking over. I try to forget my worries and enjoy the sun on the patio, comforting coffee mug in my hand. One of the cats, tiny Mjau, is chasing the first butterflies around my feet.
I am pale, weary. Not sure if I dare believe in a happy summer. Not convinced life has a meaning. But definitely certain that I will take this bleak day and make the best of it - nothing great, probably nothing much worth remembering, but the best I can do. It is enough.
7 comments:
Pleasantville... heh.
It sure seems like one.
I have this certain infatuation for cats and cottages.
They have this peaceful outlook to them.
Summers are happy.
At least most of them are..
Aah, Pleasantville of yours seems too much a paradise for me to comprehend. I'm glad to know that you are getting (will be, in any case) out of the 'pale, weary' phase. Bleak summers are...well strange to me in these latitudes.
And pat Mjau for me while you're at it, will you?
And about the joy, sometimes even cynicism is on stand-by mode.
Stormgazer, the sameness with the Watcher that you see may be just the curse of solitude. 'Curse' did I say? Pardon me, for that is a choice for me.
Rather, maybe we find an undefinable sense of the melancholy, which I frankly find more stimulating than th blandness of pure joy.
Write on, Pinaopoet!
Oh yes. Of course.
That was the point.
The Black Dragon devours himself until he escapes the prison.
Or. Keeps himself from the brink of choking. Only to destroy everything including himself.
Nice imagery!
Beautiful. Piano poet. Ah. I can swoon.
Prufrock is, er, me.
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