I cannot accept the mirth of trivialities. Of a living below life. I’d rather joke with the honest labourer whose design on the wet brick is hardened by the sun; harmony between nature and men.
But I am given, and society has ordained, the acceptance of rooms without sunlight, precision defined within dark windows and glass doors. And I must accept this common code of subsistence and forgo my living. Non-acceptance could be a fodder for future regrets.
Society, reminds you,you will shudder, without society.
But,
I cannot accept the fear of regret. Of a living below life. I’d rather soak the sun while it awaits me on green meadows. The flowers grown by the gardener; harmony between nature and men.
Often, it is simple, to romanticize. To think about harmony between nature and men. But the singular will wades through the collective of half-lives; the lively dolphin is placated by the sleeping fishes.
And if not romanticize, not think of the garden, the brick and the sun, will I not assume the role of the half-life? Of triviality?
But,
I cannot accept the mirth of trivialities. And I shall think.
Think. Think. And think about the garden and about going there. How long shall I think?
It is now that the lure of death appeals. A peaceful body, lying in the green meadows, soaking the sun, attended by the worthy gardener and the mirthful labourer.
