Today the sky sang and I looked up and saw the skylark but it rose beyond my visions, disappearing into blue. I cast my eyes over the sky, trying to trick them into sight, and saw a kite in the distance, who also evaporated into the atmosphere soon after. And yet still the sky rang with song. Above, that's all my ears could tell me, not there or there, just above.
The last week the world has been more open. More cars. More people. More movement and mixing. I look through the windows, then drop the curtain back and sink into the stony semi-quiet shadows.
People talk of needing holidays, getting away. From what? I think? From home? But why? Is not this the place you've spent your savings on? Why pay to be elsewhere? Why take your germs somewhere new? Why use the fuel and the funds? I'm sick, they say, from their three bedroom houses, of these four walls.
But what is it that is boring about these four walls? The walls, or the mind that contemplates them?
My freedom, the freedom I struggle toward, is psychological. To loosen the chains of thoughts, to unwind the ropes of mood, to slacken the rack-stretching-strain of grief. To change the scenery is not a strategy.
As for boredom... sometimes I think, I don't fancy the books I have or the films I can find on the internet. But really. That's a temporary ability to fail to engage. And even if I just can't start those things on my Kindle, there's a whole library of possible alternatives at my fingertips.
Sometimes I think, oh no, I don't want to walk there AGAIN. But the seasons change, or just the weather, and that same place is not the same. In fact, my mood changes and that same place is not the same.
Every second my experience is reborn with its subtle variations of sensing and the world is infinitely variable, as high and vast as the blue blue sky and, if I listen, singing.
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