Lost in Thoughtation

Some days are just lost... in thought, in musing, in dreaming, in wishing, in hoping, in wanting. Some days just fade to sepia, drifting away to nightfall with no memory of any significance to think back on.

Cinnamon Whirl in Puddle of Winter

I dropped it... the cinnamon whirl I'd been looking forward to cosying up and eating, I dropped it. No great disaster, except, being me, I didn't just drop it, I dropped it in a puddle. Soggy cinnamon whirl. I looked at it and I actually smiled. There was just one puddle. And I found it. I looked at my whirl all lame and dead, and looked around to make sure nobody was looking, but a man was... and he smiled. So the demise of the whirl at least created something. A smile. Or two. I walked on, and I took time to look around me. I saw Winter. Bare trees, (puddles), grey skies, murky clouds, drab colours that people dress in, carlights on, heads bowed down, feet encased in dark shoes... and then I saw red. A red coat. An auburn haired girl, wearing a bright red coat. And that made me smile too. I looked down at my own multi-coloured jacket and I realised that I was donating my own splash of colour to the day. But did anybody notice? Too many eyes avert the day, too many minds are ahead of themselves getting to the next point, too many souls are too busy to... live. I walked through a damp and muddy park, taking care to avoid mulchy piles of parcels from four-legged creatures that can't clear up after themselves, so, for that reason, I walked with my eyes gazing down. Then I saw it. I saw a dead bird. A small bird. Wet. Dead. I looked at it and I wondered what killed it, what happened that it lay there now on the wet grass? Did it just die and fall from the sky? Was it a stupid bird which flew into a lampost because it was too busy spying on worms? Did it just expire of age? Why do birds just fall to the ground? Too many questions became of me seeing that bird. But I saw it. I walked through the gates that exit the park and I headed to... home. Except, it isn't my home. It's where I stay. I stay because home is where the heart is. And my heart is, at the moment, homeless. Except of course, it is what beats inside me, so to that effect my heart is - home. Home. Isn't that where you're supposed to feel that you belong? Maybe I don't belong anywhere. I looked at the houses on my way, and I wondered about the people in them. Do they notice dead birds in wet parks? Or red coats? Probably not. I bet they don't notice cinnamon whirls in puddles either. I looked up at the sky, taking care to avoid bumping into lamposts, and I wondered if anybody else was looking up at that moment. I love the sky. I love the clouds. I love seasons. I saw the trail of a long passed plane. A white curly tail of exhausted fumes. And I wondered about the people that had flown overhead. Where were they going? Or returning to? How many of them were sitting up there, flying away, and didn't notice the sky around them? How many were too busy thinking about their next meeting at the office or thinking about what to wear to the Christmas party? Christmas. It's only weeks away. I smiled and I walked. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my soul. Alone with no cinnamon whirl.