Tonight the sky is amazing. There is an almost full moon and a mountain sky filled with the most beautiful cotton puff clouds. There is no breeze and the crickets have started their chirping. I can even here a bird that I have yet to identify but he sounds sort of like he’s laughing.
I am always accused of looking at the sky nowadays. I’m always looking up, or remarking to someone how beautiful the sky is. My mother is forever asking me if all I ever do is look up. I have to blame her though. For years all I did was look down at the ground. I was always on the hunt for something shiny. And the common comment was, “don’t you ever look up?”
So, now I look up. I still look down. You never know when you might find that stray dime or quarter. The common penny. Heck, you might even find a washer or bit of shiny glass.
I like to think that I can relate to Shelley (Percy Bysshe) and his poetry being ethereal. While I’ve yet to read much of his, I did find it to be more focused on the air and light things.
I’m not as grounded as I probably should be. I spend way more time
daydreaming plotting about things that are far from reality. Yet, can you name a poet, writer, novelist, etc. that is actually grounded? They all have their moments of what could be termed insanity, though I would rather say it’s just creativity taking hold. Take Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite poets. She was more melancholy than others, yet there were moments of pure freedom.
That’s what I tend to do. I shy away from the gloom and dreary things in life. I think sometimes it will hinder my writing. I don’t have enough conflict.
Well, I’ll go back to my earlier statement. I blame my mother on why I always look up.