The sun wanders away from a warm but insect-free sky, gone to commune with more Westerly ghosts while I eat the silence left behind in its wake. Serenity and I are not always good friends, often we barely comprehend one another. But here and now, in a kiss-me-with-comfort armchair, in a home full of love, serene is exactly what I feel. It’s almost spilling out of me in joyful teardrops. Almost. That’s for more melancholy calmness.
Today is not for head-clouds and rumination. I breathe in the wide open air; I feel it work its oxygenated magic tricks round my body and my blood; I breathe it out again like a napping cat purring itself to contentment in the warmest spot in the house.
Out in the country the quiet has a different array of flavours to the quiet you can buy from the city. It’s real organic here, not grown under retina-burning lamps and bottled up till peace and silence costs you five times more than it should. There’s no money in my pockets, I left it in the coat I also don’t need today.
Blue white skies, green brown fields and multicoloured children’s toys in the neighbouring back yards. It all wires up my brain in much less tangled ways. It all feels like home nearly four thousand miles from my own bed and my regular life. Who am I? Funny, that’s what I’m trying to figure out too.
This may just be a piece of whimsy or it may lead to more writing later. I don’t know yet: it poured out of me this afternoon and I don’t even know if I like it yet.