Beautiful Cynicism III

The sky is heavy with clouds. An improbable darkness has settled over the neighbourhood. The bright yellow dandelions dotting the lawn seem to be the only points of light outside. I can see the raindrops falling, covering the yard with a shimmering blanket; I can smell the dense air, thick with humidity; I can hear the thunder, cracking and rolling in the distance. A typical spring morning.

Many things have changed; nothing has changed. An archway, a hallway, a door, a window; passage from one area to another, from one era to another. An ending is just a beginning with a different name. Transitions, modifications, alterations. Always looking for continuity, for consistency, and never finding it. It’s a small comfort to know that it’s the same story for everyone.

Just because everything is different doesn’t mean anything has changed. (Irene Peter)

I’ve been unable to write lately, unable to formulate a coherent thought and put it to the music of language. I’ve been unable to throw myself into a book lately, too; my reading has been limited to newspapers and magazines. I can’t seem to concentrate long enough – or muster up enough interest – to immerse myself in the lives of fictional characters. To occupy my time, I’ve been catching up on old television shows, working sporadically, wandering the neighbourhood streets, and generally doing nothing of import.