Such a grey summer’s morning, it leaves the mind to wander. There is no desire to venture out or accomplish anything that would give a sense of reality to the day. I am happily perched upon my balcony looking out, taking in the foggy, dream like lake. The monochrome landscape may reduce the mind to sleep or ignite the imagination. In the absence of color the mind paints its’ own scenes and lovely words, songs, begin to form, but fail to materialize beyond their implied birth.
Ideas dance in my head, sometimes elegant, sometimes wild. As they take shape, if I tried to take hold of any one of them, they would all flutter away like monarchs on an August afternoon, and so I simply let them dance. I admire each one and let them work their spell on me. The sublime, the fanciful, and the brilliant are born from stuff of nothingness leaked out from some unknown crevice in my head, and mingled with the mystery of lake fog. Surely all great thought and thinkers were born this way. I am on the brink of something, an original thought so magnificent that the world will rejoice at its’ coming. Careful. Pull back. Do not try to touch that thought or you will loose them all.
There is an annoyance, an agitation at my nape like a stinging insect. Its’ buzzing, “Get up. There is work to do.” I swipe at it. Buzz. Buzz. “Don’t while your day away with useless day dreams you fool.” That last sting so irritates me that I am snapped from my perfect state. How dare the sensible mind interrupt my perfect reverie!
Refocused, I find there is no recapturing the dream like quality. The spell is broken. Reality has taken shape and it is just a grey rainy day with work to be done. I leave the balcony and take up the task of the laundry.
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