There is something mesmerising about each layer of snow, the way they compact and hold together on each uniquely crafted branch with adhesive icicles . . . . . . Fascinating. . .
Today I climbed a mountain, the air was crisp and the pathway strewn with footprints of many walkers each treading the path that lay before my trudging boots. Judging by the depths of the varying indents, the size and stature of those that previously walked the blizzard like snow, varied immensely.
I’m sat waiting for the rice to finish cooking, it’s part of a delicious dish I’m cooking, judging by the aroma that the slaughtered chicken is producing, now that the fleshy morsels have been dusted with herbs, it’s going to be delightful. . .
The other day I sat chatting with a few mates, and the topic of discussion was, ‘What is a Real Man!’
It was quite a straight forward question but the conversation seemed to be stuck in a groove of uncertainty.
You could sense the unease, you could see beads of perspiration forming on foreheads, it was as if the question was too dangerous to handle. . .
I’m sat in a cafe, and it’s narcotic, I’m guessing from the decor that its trying to relive the past.
I’m almost a quarter of the way through my bacon sandwich, it’s nice, but I should have indulged in a full breakfast. You see, the table adjacent to mine did, and now they are gorging themselves on fodder that could have been mine.
And as I paused between the last and next mouthful a wave of nostalgia washed over me.
I have just been to the cobblers to have the heels of my boots fixed, they were in desperate need of work due to the mileage they have recently completed.
Im sat consuming a coffee and a little piece of chocolate in a busy deli-eatery.
The chocolate I am consuming is an easter egg reduced to half-price by a shop who’s marketing strategy failed to maximise revenue from the crucifixion.
There is a young boy, no older than 6 years of age sat at a table close to where I am located. He is sat with his father and is striving to engage him in child like activity, in a historical game derived from the nursery rhyme ‘pat-a-cake’. He is persistently wrestling with the clasped hands of his father trying to pry them apart for play.
There is a tune playing in my ear. . .it has a seriously heavy beat with a dramatic sounding base.
It’s as if my ear drums are being battered by an acoustic jelly, with a delicious rhythm. . .
Do you ever get those moments when all of your life for one split second seems all aligned, all in sync, as if every globule of liquid within you flows to one rhythm?
Theres this mate of mine who plays drums, in fact he breathes drums, if you were to watch him play, whilst sticking your fingers in your ears to drown out all of the sound, he would look seriously strange, arms flailing everywhere legs thrashing around and a weird look across his face!. . . But if you were to remove your fingers, so that you could hear the sound of the drum; then your ears, your mind and your flesh would fall into the very beat that he was playing.