Why don’t we live in those open fields?, you said You know the ones that happen at the end of films when the hero finally arrives. Do we have to cast a few notches on the tree trunk of life before sweating gloriously with our backs on bare grass and allowing rain to mix tenderly with ginger beer and dames coming round with trays. We didn’t hire the, they just came to be here, lucky dames, feasting off the crowd and off of you in the pasture time and likely shades of growth that we began to forgive on.
Pasture times and pretty few get to live them. And if they do, they forget how the grime of city slicking made them who they are.
This and other thoughts torment my days. The pasture times haunt as a reminder of what you’re still yet to become.