Tuesday, April 15, 2003

Swinging is the closest you can be to flying.
To soar through the air, kick off your shoes, point your toes at the sky in
the hope that maybe one of these days you can touch a tree- or a cloud. And
then, back again for another try, the wind whistling through your hair and
your hands clutching the rusty chain that holds you; everything melts away
in the peacefulness of the back and forth. Innate trust in only a plank of
wood and some rope (or metal links) to keep you from splattering all over the
ground- humans are so simple; sometimes it makes me wonder why we ever get
ourselves in the muddles we do. But that's why we need parks with
butterflies flitting amongst small purple flowers- to remind us of the fact
that the small things in life are the most significant; some things you
think you didn't need until you realised how important they were in the
first place, in their own unobtrusive way. They're the things that you miss.
I'm not trying to sound like a sappy Chicken Soup editor, but somehow I feel
inexpressibly happy when I walk the dog in growing dusk with a little breeze
to keep me company, the birds twittering as they fly away home against a
sky that is changing colour, lighting up the clouds in what looks like a
Michaelangelo palette.

It's times like these when I skip home.

Mina at 7:40 AM