I will throw my joy at the obdurate blankness of the dispassionate universe and revel in the mess I make against its imperviousness. If you stare, unfeeling, at my antics then I will poke you in the eye with frivolity. I will wrench and claw your voice from behind your clenched teeth. Refuse to laugh with me and I'll make you laugh at me. Refuse to laugh at me and I'll force you to curse me. I'll not play dead in this short season of life. I will live or die trying, and so will you.
Let's consider the sun for a moment:
The sun is so dramatic this morning, peeking through the gaps in the scattered grey clouds, lining them in gold, sending majestic rays bursting forth in every direction. The sun is a diva, no subtlety in her ostentatious display. But marketing works, however impervious we believe ourselves to be. I am stirred in spite of myself.
Meanwhile the sun floats alone in space millions of miles away. The sun has never seen a cloud, never seen a silver lining, never seen a stirring sunburst on a product package. The sun has never read the New York Times. The sun is completely out of touch with fashion. She just burns and shines and burns and shines. The sun has no idea that she's been unfairly personified as some gaudy showgirl. She has no idea at all.
The clouds are so dramatic this morning, draping themselves flamboyantly across the sun.
If you frown at my story I will paint over it with a smile. If you try to stop me then paint will get everywhere, ruining your beautiful new clothing. Consider the cost and relent. Resistance is pointless. Come and play with me.
Hello, friends. How are you?
Later. Love.
