Distractions have been blinding me recently. By impulse today, I stood at the furthest end of the room, pushing away the pale pink sheer curtains overlaying the window. A gaze at a stand still. There is nothing new. The same street. The same row of monotonous houses, paces between, though interaction low in existence. No people to watch, and even if there were so, they have become just as monotonous as these places they reside in. Rummaging for their keys, rushing to their cars, that's all they ever do here. Oh, the dear child who must be raised amongst such arid thoughts, overwrought with realism, 1-2-3 canvases, never to be complacent, because everything here is so sure of itself. An untarnished sense of wonder in youth, now diminished. The shame in such. What has become of the life in this "life?"
And then I catch a daisy in my visual grasp, petals aflutter in the light breeze. Simple in its shade of ivory. Beautiful. Pollen promiscuously intermingled with the air with which it takes flight. It is only then that I feel assured.