The obscurity of clouds and mist is a welcome interlude. We needn’t have our prospects perfectly lucid or brilliantly beguiling. Indeed it is perhaps a reminder that seldom do we see things as clearly as we might imagine. There is always a bit of fog. The dour atmosphere of a misty, rainy day is besides an opportunity for introversion and personal settlement, a metaphorical relief from the world outside, an opportunity to do all those things which hitherto we conceded to isolate our private thoughts and indolent aspirations, the luxury for example of an afternoon nap or a relaxing cup of tea while gazing wistfully upon the early winter scene with its promise of seasonal retreat, dormancy and renovation.
Competing with this wandering aimless spirit is my curmudgeonly attitude which shamefully bubbles and defines while commensurately expanding with each passing day as I age. Regularly I remind myself of those winning adages for the decorous conduct of one’s life, things like not brooking emotion to rule reason, those clever but withering mandates for removal of one’s innate and more volatile attitudes in preference for what, upon subsequent consideration, is certain to be more tolerable and less obstructive.
The collection of rain upon the balcony railing overflows onto the glass barrier creating a giant teardrop of water that slides down and disappears like the nearly imperceptible and uncommonly inaudible geese in the distance, their triangular flight a floating thread of wool that twists and wends its way into the horizon then evaporates.
But I have maintained my deliberation, my monotony, my ritual of habit and frankly unperturbed fortitude. It would be utter deceit to deny the substance of my triviality. A strong but tiny glass mug of espresso is my narcotic of choice, the enabler of inner depth and external expression. Oh, how we are imperceptibly palliated by our nostrum. And before long the wisps of grey and naughty winds have translated the vista to an alternative invitation.
