What is there to Write About?
On a Sunday afternoon in the last few days of April the air is damp and chilly. A grey sky covers this part of the world and a gusting wind stirs up a miserable mixture of accumulated winter filth and the odours of decay. The hope of release from the hell of the past winter has become a lost memory as what passes for spring has shed little or no warmth or light that we may turn to.
The shelter of our home has become a trap. The distractions we have passed the time by are nothing but annoyances and irritations. The productive labours we have undertaken are now become chores that provide no satisfaction or sense of accomplishment.
No point in getting out the tools to begin the spring yard work. No point in getting out the summer toys.
Stuck in a seemingly perpetual limbo of grey and damp while summer just beyond the horizon, walks away without the slightest glance or turn of the head to give encouragement.
Time to get the hell out of here for a while.
**UPDATE**
Tuesday now and the sun came out to play.
OMMAG
The shelter of our home has become a trap. The distractions we have passed the time by are nothing but annoyances and irritations. The productive labours we have undertaken are now become chores that provide no satisfaction or sense of accomplishment.
No point in getting out the tools to begin the spring yard work. No point in getting out the summer toys.
Stuck in a seemingly perpetual limbo of grey and damp while summer just beyond the horizon, walks away without the slightest glance or turn of the head to give encouragement.
Time to get the hell out of here for a while.
**UPDATE**
Tuesday now and the sun came out to play.
OMMAG
posted by OMMAG at 7:59 p.m.
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