I sat out in the sun with my morning coffee, on one of the wicker chairs. I noticed that the calico cushions are now the same colour as the cane, as I sat down there in the morning light. The sun was like warm silk brushing against my skin. The sky was as clear as a twenty-something's complexion, with the big golden ball burning against it, reflecting the new light. A gentle breeze blew.
So... why do I have to go back to the salt mines, I thought? (Oh no, they think, not this again) This is lovely. People get very antsy when I say that most of us don't do anything important.
Speak for yourself, said one of my friends.
Why? Are you developing the cure for cancer. The next solar panel? The scram-jet to fly to the far off galaxy? No, you are not.
I don't do anything worthwhile... a bunch of numbers for bloated, fat lawyers, sucking the planet dry.
Colombian coffee, black and hot.
Missy rubbed around my ankles. I lazily dropped my arm down and tousled her soft fur, she purred.
My hands tense, on the woven wicker arms of the chair, into fists... I really do have to find a job. But, this is so lovely, this is what life is about.
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