the lost man chronicles
a lull in the grass
it seems like i have not lulled on the grass in one hundred years.
too busily buzzing to be frivolous, i fear to just lie there, lazily, amidst doing nothing, contumaciously saturating the cool soothing plush of the dewy green. anxiously, i am resigned to merely admiring the blurry meadows left behind, the provincial pastures in passing.
it almost seems strange to yearn for the lawn, but perhaps it is stranger that i must long for the simple pleasure of such lackadaisical splendor.
for why canít i merely find a tender moment to recline, to dine upon the inspiration in the breeze; to ease the tedium away by composing and rendering interludes intermittently throughout the day; to repose amongst the wanton ways of weeds, those wild roses of daisies and clover that carelessly grow over and seed color into chlorophylllic plains?
why canít i simply lie in vain and behold the wide white and unfolding willows lining the blue majesty? why canít i just occasionally close my eyes and roll over to dream that i am not simply a weevil that toils inside this evil concrete and steel machine?
why must i be limited to imagining the feral careening of tall blades caressing me with wafts of daftly dancing fingers tickling my sides to and fro?
alas, i know. alas, i know.
in the beginning .00 daily archives