Frustratingly shallow...

I've been up for a while and have been drinking my delicious cups of coffee. It took me no effort at all this morning to make a pot. I was wide awake when I stepped out of bed and more than ready to start the day. I even had to make cigarettes, having depleted the supply I had last night. I did it with the greatest of ease, as if it was no problem so early in the morning. That goes to show you that I was free of grumpiness and that I immediately was in a good mood. I am an early riser and I get out on the right side of the bed. Luckily, my bed is positioned in the right place.

I have visited blogs and sent emails and now I should be more than ready to write a blog post. I just need for my imagination to wake up. I think that will take another cup of coffee. I wish I could visit the place in my head where my imagination lives and see what size it is and what form it has and if I have a lot of it. Maybe then I could learn to depend on it. I think a lot of times it is hidden by my need to want to be logical and to want to make sense. It would be better if I could give it free reign and set it loose.

Circumstances also dictate how poetic I can get. If I feel that I have to be in charge and be the responsible adult, I'm not as likely to let down my boundaries and give myself over to my more lyrical side. The one who spends more time with her head in the clouds and her feet lightly lifted off the ground. Like a balloon drifting around just without reach. I have been known to spend large periods in this state of mind and be very prolific. I was attached to the earth by a gossamer thread.

Nowadays, I try to stay more grounded than that and to have both my feet firmly planted on the ground. This does hinder the free flow of my more poetic ideas. It's hard to be lyrical if you don't spend time in the higher spheres. If your firmly attached to all that's worldly. I don't allow myself many flights of imagination. Nor do I see as much overwhelming beauty in the world around me. I've become a bit more cynical than that and I have to find a new form to express that side of me. I do want to see the beauty with unbiased eyes, but I also see the fragility of it and the fact that you can't grasp and hold it.

The love that you felt for things only becomes a memory when you can't go back and rediscover them. You can only continue to love them if you keep living with them and I have not been that fortunate. I have had a lot of experiences, though, and I have an enormous source of material to dip into. The fact that I don't do this, speaks for itself. I consider them a closed book and I rarely open it. I want to keep them locked up in the chambers of my mind and not wax lyrical about them lest I get too sentimental and teary eyed. I must not start to think that one stage in my life was more beautiful than the other.

I prefer to think that the one I'm in will turn out to be the best one and that this is the one that I will in the end be lyrical and poetic about, but in a sober minded way. The way a Dutch person can be lyrical in a stark and barren way that does not show too much emotion lest he makes a fool of himself. There's to be not too much passion. We are Calvinistic people, after all, even if some of us are Catholic and more Burgundian.

I still don't know where my imagination lives. I think it lives in a state of mind, though, when you're disconnected from too much reality and when you are in a loftier and more ethereal space where the air is thinner, high up a mountain somewhere, very solitary. Maybe that's why I seek so much time alone. To get in touch with that place, where the foothills and the shrub oaks live and where the sun shines relentlessly in the bright blue sky. It's only an illusion. The rain comes down outside and it's another gray day and that's reality and I don't mind the rain. That's been established.

I live my life accordingly and adapt myself to the circumstances, but I can make the best of them. Kindness abounds, after all, and that wasn't always the case.

Ciao,

Nora