Dear You

Straight as an arrow. Lie on the ground in a perfect line...

Dear you,

Straight as an arrow. Lie on the ground in a perfect line. Look up at the night sky above. At the moon flanked by its stars that twinkle and flicker. Look up at that which stretches onward for as far as imaginable and know what it is to feel but a small part of something majestic and massive and all encompassing. But do so with a cloth between you and earth, for it is cold out of an evening and liable to make the thoughts in thaw run a little grand.

Yours musing on the universe and that which may or may not lie beyond, whist simultaneously trying to box-up my backyard inner-philosopher,
X

(Postcard collage title: A glittering cloak of snow too hard to refuse.)

Yesterday’s lonely suit feels unworn...

Dear you,

No longer do I need to converse with an upturned broom head leaning against the laundry door. (Spare me your cries of ‘Wilson’. Had not the madness of a desert-island Hanks to me. Yet, I grant you. Yet. But you’ll note I say ‘had’ not ‘have’. I feel it’s all behind me. Past tense, you see. Besides, my friends of decidedly made-up variety never took on appearance of a ball with an imprinted hand for a face. My fruit in the kitchen never featured a series of tiny faces drawn with pen upon their pitted or smooth surfaces. No unmistakable personalisation of objects for me. Now, where was I?) Found delicious companionship today and spoke until I was hoarse. Yesterday’s lonely suit feels unworn. I feel much restored to vim and vigour wellness stakes. Much like my old self. The old self, that is, that I prefer to share.

Yours never tired of a chinwag,
X

(Postcard collage title: Practising Emerson's advice.)

Yours making humorous-curious long shadows in the late afternoon...

Dear you, 

Contentment can be found in the little things. The walk with no purpose. Just a walk, an amble, a stroll for sake just of a stroll. One foot in front of the other, outcome uncertain. Wandering. Rambling. Sauntering. Impossible to grow weary of perambulating. Be it somewhere new or somewhere familiar. The joy of it, the happiness, this lies in the just-walking-about-ness of it all. This is what I will later remember when at home I am tucked. Not those big occasions, but the little ones. The little happinesses.  

Yours making humorous-curious long shadows in the late afternoon thus ensuring that this moment is one to tuck in close to the heart,
X

(Posrcard collage title: Mindful not to let slip my interloper status, I ventured into town.)

But underneath the feathers and inside my head, a different story reads...

Dear you,

To outward view, I daresay things look closer to as they ought than they do from within. Daresay I look content. At peace. A tourist in Berlin much like any other. But underneath the feathers and inside my head, a different story reads. I am thinking of all those things I’d like to one day do but fear the clock is against me. My wings take longer to warm up now. Little difference the weather makes to my flap, flap, flap, smooth flight. Thankfully, am something of a terrific belly glider. An orchestra of tiny wheels beneath my frame make this an ease I've been quick to master. Stand too close and you might hear them, the spinning of my tiny wheels that are capable of supporting my black-feathered frame as I roll about the metrop’. I don’t squeak like that man of tin made, but I can make a passer-by curious if I’m not well oiled for the day’s sightseeing activities. Eyebrows rise to meet the hairline above at sounds hard to pinpoint. This is a time-honoured truth. One of many.

Yours rolling freely toward the inevitable end,
X

(Postcard collage title: The Berlin Glide.)