These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to Live

Lay back on the grass, not really caring that it was mildly damp, a result of the early morning mist. It's wonderful to see the play of light from under a tree's branches in summer, when sunlight gamely seeks to disperse the ubiquitous clouds. The dappled grass at the foot of the tree like a rippling cloth woven out of light. Birdsong, so splendid and clear, it almost pains me to use 'melodious' to describe it, but i've never been good at painting aural cues. And the breeze carrying with it scents, hanging on after the confused spring.

It may be a sign of madness, but the need for dialogue manifests itself in the form of me having a conversation with the trees, but that wears off, not for a lack of response, but for my seeming impatience. The trees may have given answer to previous questions, it's just that i move on to the next in a mere ten minutes. The need for dialogue rears it's ugly head and prompts more questions running a cicuitous path through my mind. Answering myself s redundant but i do it nevertheless.

A large grey cloud replaces the wispy pretenders and now the gloom is here to stay. As always the dark has the effect of bringing with it a kind of melancholy that doesn't deprive, but enriches. I may go as far as to say it is a joyous melancholy. An obvious oxymoron, and you might as well dispense with the 'oxy' you say. However, this isn't an inability to express, it's an emotion beyond language. Refer Milton's Il Penseroso and you might get my drift.

It's in these moments when i'm well and truly connected with life, mortality becomes an abstract concept. The walls and windows of habitation amplify that dreadful thought in a most frightening manner. And yet i persist to live most of my life inside, working in a job whose very nature wars with the paths my mind travels. It's strange what expedience forces onto us.