Well, I'm out of bed. Not even a novel by Patrick Rothfuss had the power to keep me there longer than about mid-morning. Thoughts of breakfast and the balcony teased me out of it.
How lovely to lounge on a balcony overlooking the water, even when it's a tad too chilly still to survive without a sweater. The fragrances of spring are overwhelming - wet soil, new leaves and budding flowers - and I can watch the crows build their nest in the linden tree. Time to brew some café à l'Elettaria Cardamomum.
The revelation hit me today: there is no need to feel like a failure because I haven't chosen life here. Because I HAVE chosen life here - if you look at it from the other perspective. Why have I never realised that there are always at least two perspectives? Even the crows in the linden tree know that.
1 comment:
in the lilt of birdsong, or the sombre grey of a Northland sky, or the last vestiges of gold in a swift-falling dusk - if anyone can find a sense of contentment, then it is never a failure.
Erm... ok i just wrote some seriously weird stuff. eloquence overload! keep writing.
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