"Oh, what wonderful weather." I say to my good friend.
She looks at me like I'm half crazy, it isn't the first time I've received such looks.
"It makes me sad." she mumbles.
However in my mind, it is the sunny weather which makes me most depressed. Its a fib, a lie. It portrays a world of good, a world of happiness, a world in which everything seems to be fine. For now. It deceives one from reality. In reality, there are starving children and a war and your dog just died.
Clouds provoke thought. While walking home I think about several things, especially descriptions. It is as though I am writing a book in my head, and everything I see I must describe.
I see a flower. It's pure white with slim, elegant petals like a swan's plumage. Beside it lies a wilted flower with yellowed petals --the same flower, the unfortunate one.
1 comment:
I often think what a morbid person I must be to like the rain, the changing clouds, the grey intrigue more than clear blue days.
But I think it's because it draws me inward, it creates introspection. It gives me the excuse to think enormous thoughts, to scribble and write and think.
Of course it's lovely weather. Of course.
(the poem was good.)
people to read:
Julie Orringer's collection Breathing Underwater--she's in the same writing group as Z.Z. Packer: the Iowa Writer's Workshop.
Annie Dillard: a nonfiction writer, but lovely lovely images. find either Pilgrim at Tinker Creek or Holy the Firm. I read her and want more than ever to be a writer.
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