IT has been another dreary day, a grey overcast sky, cold winds and weak sunlight.
I have sat at my desk and looked out over the city and wondered of all the little people playing out their little lives in the honeycombs of the apartment buildings, whether they were happy and how they occupied their days, what nightmares dissolved their nights. Attempted to write a bit more today, but failed rather miserably and am now procrastinating by casting fragments of my thought on my blog. On here, at least, I don’t censure or criticize myself as much: what I write on here is not so much about beauty and elegance and flair but slapping my heart down before you, so that it spasms and pumps, a red fistful of muscle, raw and true, to leave an iron taste in your mouth. Yes, I like that metaphor: an iron taste in the back of one’s mouth, from chewing and coughing on the life itself.
It has come to my attention that there are certain places, certain spots, that are easily wrought idyllic and romantic. What makes them so is a combination of factors, ranging from isolation to the beauty of the scenery, or even the pure poetry conjured by the place itself (as you and I well know, poetry isn’t only art, words, pictures, but the world itself. The world, the universe, is a song, a grand, grand poem, and it is beautiful). Here are a few of these delightful nooks:
- The countryside. Or, where I live, otherwise known as the Outback. There is nothing better than a little cottage situated in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but grasslands coloured sand-green and parchment-yellow for miles around. You feel yourself to be perched on the edge of the world, with nothing but the cows and the birds for company. Yet, there is a barrenness to such a setting that lends it a certain withered beauty, I think.
- A wooden house in a snowy glade. That crisp, white hush of the snow overlaying the world, the icicles and glints of frost crusted on the fir trees, their branches like wreathed arms, with no-one in sight for miles around, except for a certain prowling Bigfoot that leaves fresh footprints in the snow to be found with thudding hearts every morning. Imagine: a crackling fireplace, ever so cozy, and to sit before it while the elements rail against the windows, sipping a mug of hot coffee, suspended in your own warm, sweet microcosm.
- Train carriages. Not exactly sure why, but all my life I’ve adored trains, the antique ones, mind you, with the handle yanked that blows a whistle, that puffs smoke heartily along its journey. The cramped and cozy nature of the leather-seated carriages, with the compartments up top for housing your luggage, and most of all the view out of the window, of a world rushing past for you to observe. To go to sleep with the streaming of stars without, and the steady rattle of wheels below, to know that there are so many others, likewise, on this journey with you, leaning their heads against the window and thinking their own thoughts out into the scenery. Lamps, brass lamps curving out from the walls, glowing faint halos. A good book. Bliss, I say, bliss.
Sometimes, I yearn so terribly to exist in those romantic surroundings, but I know that they will not compare to what I have imagined them to be. Perhaps, seeing as I imagine them so fully, down to the last detail, can smell the leather, feel the cool cocooning of the winter wonderland, there is little point in seeking them out in reality. I would only be disappointed. It seems the anticipation of holidays is always more enjoyable than the holiday itself, and to be a dreamer is to live in a perpetual, rosy state of bittersweet anticipation. Applying this to one’s love life might not be ideal: an imagination may be able to bring to life scenery and surroundings, but human beings are a different matter. There are some things which no fairy dust can ever make shine, and I would take flesh and blood over golden statues that smile and speak whatever I want them to say any day.