“That love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores. But they don’t know it. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who’ve never felt it. They make some sort of feeble stew out of sympathy, compassion, comtempt, and general indiference, and they call it love. Once you’ve felt what it means to love as you and I know it - the total passion for the total height - you are unable of anything else.”—Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead
The term concerto to many would mean something novel and out of the usual sphere of things. I have work I really should be doing but nothing seems to be more fitting, Mozart on a sunday evening and I have books and books to read and digest and then manipulate.
The working week for me has become seven days, I never understood those people that took work so seriously but its a safety net, a safe form of loving. Perhaps it has come to mean something else for me, I dread the lack of sleep I will feel when I rise for a 5.45am jog through the fields. I have been watching the rye grow and take on different colours and I almost feel saddened by the idea that one day soon, I will take my usual detour off the street and onto the fields and see them bare, or more like a scandanavian’s stubble that fights the blade.
Blogging is therapy and despite the lack of readers the most avid as ever will remain as me. I miss her everyday and with every piano key that is struck I will pick up the manuscript and start afresh, sharpened pencil at the ready.