perhaps the moth simply doesn't know the strength of its own wings but the way it flutters seemingly erratic in its choices never straight forward in its direction can be infuriating at times as those silken sails appear to force it where none expect it to be in disjointed circles often far off course only occasionally will it find itself exactly where it should be whether accidentally or by design its every path is filled with calculated corrections revisions and redress in order to reach its intended that source of light one way or another
a gentle patter of rain tapping politely at the window not tempestuously but imposing enough in its constancy a passive aggressive reminder from the heavens of our ultimate lack of control such a minor obstacle and yet it tips the scales of what was planned or hoped for to something perhaps unforeseen not yet considered i thought i had no intention of leaving the house but find myself rolling my eyes with huff and sigh cursing the grey for ruining that potential
by lunchtime windscreens glisten with newly welcomed sunlight reflected blindingly from droplets that linger despite the fresh warmth carried in the convective air it no longer appears to be "coat weather" though the ground is still puddled to squelch or splash underfoot perhaps i could venture outside after all with a motivation fuelled by this latest change but for all the blue stretching the sky there is still that darkened mass of cloud hanging heavy in the distance unable to tell if it has been weathered already or is another downpour yet to come
i would like to keep bees or at least i like the idea of keeping bees to be honest i know nothing next to nothing about all that it entails but it seems like it would be cathartic although their frenzies may be calmed by the smoke movements must remain slow and gentle such fragility must be tended to carefully mindfully almost lovingly i think i like the idea of the peace to be found in those moments there is a shade-dappled spot at the bottom of the garden that would be the perfect place for them where the humming of the hive would accompany the swaying of the tree's their gentle whispering and the quietude that would settle beyond
i can feel the passion slowly fading. when faced with blank pages, i spew nothing but empty words and meaningless sentences, so superficial, overflowing with pretenses.
oh, how i miss the wide-eyed writer I used to be: the type to pour his whole heart and soul into his stories. now, i'm stuck chasing the words that were once mine, stuck wondering if i'll ever get back my shine.