There’s something about certain seasons – the sight of the soft winter sun shinning on a window, the feel and smell of spring rain being absorbed into earth – that makes the mind wander. A strange resilience, mostly romantic, sometimes melancholy, blankets the soul until it gladly springs through indiscriminate doors previously untouched.
Somewhere along this thoughtful surrender, thoughts travel unrestricted for, towards those who are still enough to listen. Sounds – soft as butterfly wings or sharp like lightning – take shape, metamorphose into words. Most are lost, quiet daydreams that perish like fog in the sun. Some, however, are captured, caught in glass jars like fireflies in amber.
I’m freeing some of them here. Let’s see what they become…
- Random Rollicks: Zwölf
- Random Rollicks: Elf
- Random Rollicks: Zehn
- Random Rollicks: Neun
- Random Rollicks: Acht