An overcast day only hinting of sun suits my mood. I like taking walks in it. When dusty clouds tinged with peach, pink, turquoise and orange hover, my thoughts are romantic. Pathetically I imagine living in that old gothic building jutting over the Hudson, or have a cotton-headed fantasy about the preference bestowed upon me by the universe, wherein hordes of lovely people who like my books buttress my existence with praise and favor in all manner, form and “activity.”
The texture of clouds and colors on these days are the canvas for the depths of my thoughts and for the melancholy hue of self-indulgence. I’m not afraid to allow myself to be seen, to reveal myself in this atmosphere, and can discuss with myself, out loud – if walking on a quiet road — how to handle an ongoing conflict with the obese service worker, or the blatant truth about the direction of my life, or the spiritual benefit of never blaming anyone other than myself.
Centuries old artists capture the beauty of the powdery, melancholy sky as a palette against the flora or peasant’s valley. As a transporting exercise in recreation, I imagine the woods across the street against a pastel textured, dark-hued sky a hundred and fifty years past.
I prefer this to the harassment and shock of a sheer blue day. The demand, the brightness shining on every flaw of my life are too much for me to endure at times. The intrusion is audacious — it embodies the collective idea that it’s the perfection of days and that I should be impelled to romp about in it to serve my health.
What crap is this? The sun burning my eyes, my chest clenched with the weight of all this expectation. Bah. My name is Sandee, and I’m not a great fan of the overbearing sun.
1800ukillme 