Today the bird sings. Rain pellets make their tiny thump on the branches of the large pine tree, and the song of the robin continues. The trill-weet-weet-trill is a far cry from the silence that reigns during winter’s bite.
And the raindrops fall on my forehead, each an idea of the possibilities of grandiose and miniscule themes with which I can centralize today’s writing. Yet, I’m bored. I’m bored with my voice and the peace and the tranquility.
I want humor. I want anger. I want wacky-wonky shit. Contrarily, trying to expand my writing skills has inhibited my personality, leaving it screaming “Let me out! Let me out!” And my writing answers, “No dear, we have visitors”.
And then I feel like this:
Today the bird sings. And she’ll sing tomorrow and the day after that. It might be a gentle trill-weet-weet-trill or a raucous caw-ca-caw, depending on the weight of the ideas the raindrops bring. And I can be a winter killer, a spring bird, a mad mama, or a song singer.
Isn’t life more interesting that way?