Melancholia, and friends

My last post really was late night – sadness AND ill-thought-through metaphors. I did have a nice birthday in the end, just through a fog of strangely catatonic caffeine rushes.
Today, among the cards for Claire’s birthday, arrives one for me from Anna and Jag; they’d read that post and written to cheer me up. It worked. And as Jag pointed out, yoghurt may go, but it will come again tomorrow.
And anyway, Shelley was prattling crap: our saddest thoughts don’t make our sweetest songs; Simply being, unplanned and unthought, is the sweetest song. A thought is static, dead and sterile. There’s a reason that ‘human being’ contains a present participle.
My sweetest song is this trio, right here at home – still, and always, singing, even if my harmony is sometimes in the minor.


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