Sex, Drugs and Positivity

Lately I've started to get those strange feelings again. I'm sure I've mentioned them before. They're like little nags of nostalgia, except I would accept that the nostalgia is less nostalgic and more expectant. It's very hard to describe it frankly. Sometimes I would say it feels like I'm in a book, stuck on a particular page that I'd hate to turn in case I lost that feeling of euphoria that a particular set of sentences inspired. Other times it reminds me of sitting in a newly refurbished room, suddenly aware of all the amazing things I could do with the new space. But really, I can only describe it one way, which is unfortunate because that way is so very undescriptive to anyone who has not had the pleasure of seeing through my eyes and thinking through my mind, and that way is thus: Streetlamps and Dusk.

I feel awfully static as of late. As if however much I seem to spur myself forward, the more I am pulled back. I feel ever more impotent in the face of an exceptionally average society which only leads me to the conclusion that I should have indeed chosen to find some place to build my hermitage in the forest.

I soon remember this is England.

I really should have been born in the goddamn rainforest.

Strangely, I'm feeling startled by those of late. Before they were mentioned, I'm sure. Those little nags of the nostalgic, expectantly accepting of it's nostalgia more or less. Frankly it's hard to describe. 

The Magpie

Hidden in the heath-lands and mires of southern England, in an old forgotten wood long since trodden by human wandering, there stood an old proud oak, so ancient that, like all other things having reached an age of wisdom and patience, they flourished a mane of silver, camouflaged by the auburns and greys of autumn's flavour that permeated the woodlands, lingering on the leaves, hanging from them and weighing them to the ground.
 It was here, above the overgrowth, that there stirred a wind that lifted those lost leaves into a flourish of colour, then twice and then a third time before a sudden gust lifted the forest floor. Mice and voles scurried from the unexpected nakedness and squirrels watched careful and curious from the tree branches.
 When it all settled, it could be seen, directly beneath our great silver crowned oak, a small opening had appeared, where it's roots had become torn from the ground and pulled with it the earth, where below that earth was a lack of earth that stretched far beyond lights uncanny ability to cast itself, where below, thought one curious eye, must have been something.. Where below must still be something.. Where below, one magpie found his path lay.