Friday, May 13, 2011
I am writing after aeons. Sitting on the terrace, it's supposed to be summer. But never has it seemed like it in weeks now. Well describing weather is something everybody can seem an adept at. Right now there is a huge three dimensional mushroom of a cloud to admire. It coudn't have gotten more beautiful. I am not an ardent nature admirer, but I don't know why admiring it so exhilarating. Is it because I am aware of the ability to admire it, or the fact that I am fortunate to be looking at it?
None of these seem to make sense. Perhaps I assume a bond between myself and these admirable things and as though its broken when I voice the admiration for them. It's just imagination. I imagine that they reciprocate it someway which isn't describable, which of course isn't credible. Credible or not, I shall continue to admire them.The imagination part... lets forget it