It rained. Now it's doubtful the grass will be dry enough for cutting today unless the sun shines and the wind blows. Still, there's always tomorrow, and that's a fact, barring death, and even then - who knows? Though should there be an afterlife I doubt it extends itself to coming back in phantasmical form to cut the grass. I mean, would I even care?
It's cold too. On occasion I'm shivering. Maybe I'm feeling the ghostly presence of a former occupant, fretting because he or she died before doing the last cut of the year?
It's a sad time of year, don't you think? Autumn? The summer furtively slips by, almost unnoticed, and the Fall, though possessing it's own special beauty, heralds the start of the winter to come. That's the perception, in maturity anyway. If only I could return to those childhood days when summers stretched out infinitely long. When an hour was an age, a day an eon, and always set beneath cloudless blue skies. Sigh.
It's raining hard again, as if in response to my wistful muse, to create a back-drop to my mood. Thought control? I wonder? If I meditate on bright positive thoughts, will the sun come out? Probably not. I doubt that's what they mean when they speak of "making one's own reality".
I've slept awhile since writing the above. Rosie still sleeps, curled close-to. She seems lonely since the demise of the dogs, an unusual trait in a feline, yet still, it appears so. She doesn't get so close as to feel my body heat, my near presence is all she seeks. The security of companionship.
I like solitude. Being alone, but not feeling lonely. I can spread myself in every sense. It allows me to think, to not-think, to meditate, so to speak. The cat allows me that, whereas people don't. The ideal companion, par excellence.
Life's not so bad.