Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Petals on wet, blotchy concrete
Ever since freshman poetry, one of my favorite poems is "In a Station at the Metro" by Ezra Pound:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough
Now whenever I see pink petals, I automatically think of that second line.
It rained this evening, unexpectedly, and the rain brought down a hail of blooms from the tree next door. For a couple of minutes, it looked like it was snowing. Pink snow.
* * *
I feel better today, which should come as no surprise because I always eventually feel better. But whenever I'm feeling depressed - even if it's for a very short time - there's part of me that is utterly convinced that I will always be stuck in that heavy, dark place. It's like an emotional nausea. I think I'm finally getting to the point where I can tell myself that it's going to get better soon, even if I don't entirely believe it.
Tomorrow my little family is going on a mini-vacation. Nothing fancy, but I'm really looking forward to it. I got my work done today and mentally checked out the second I left the building.