Every time one idea seeps in, ready for posting (on this blog adored by hundreds, right?) another starts making its way through. It's a passive aggressive system, forced by gravity.
Like water in a drain.
This is the picture in my mind: Thousands of eggs, dropping from the sky. White, glossy, and farm fresh from Trader Joe's. Whatever they chance to break on they seep into, expending the energies of their fall into the ground - all our now and future thoughts hidden inside their cognitive yolks. They fall on the grass, on the pavement, in the trees - and if your lucky - onto your own head. Thats when you get to keep the thought all to yourself.
We're all just living under falling eggs. We're all just walking on eggshells.
Does that put the hens in the sky?
"No, honey. Clouds aren't a combination of condensed moisture and water vapor in a high energy state, they're a home for chickens."
The metaphor has gone too far by this point, but the picture was nice when it happened.
Now I'm together with my people in this little nook in the corner of Emmerson. Fabs is reading The Sorrows of Young Werther, saying out loud the parts that strike him. Quoting the eggs that fall directly overhead. "The only real smiles are the smile's of dreamers..."
Maybe you are right, Goethe, maybe. But everyone knows your quite the cynic, too, and I believe that I can trust you no more than I can the optimistic kitten.
However, the longer I sit here the more I enjoy Werther's statement. In the company of friends in a secret place. I am looking around and I am thinking that I
see dreamers, too.
1 comment:
I am a dreamer, probably. But you never know. I could be sick and twisted too, looking at brokenness and laughing in its face. But probably not.
And I really enjoy you, Lyndsay Field.
Post a Comment