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Homage to the Muses

I am desperately trying to remember an idea that I had earlier. It was so vivid, so good, that I was certain that I will remember it for years to come. A few hours later — nothing. Not a single shred of memory apart from the fact that it was good and important.  Where do our thoughts come from? Are they stored somewhere, and we just put our hands down, grab one by the neck and take it to the surface of our mind? No? Do we produce them? I guess that is the answer of most. ‘It is my thought! I built it myself’?  ‘Out of what’, I would ask. I always had the feeling that the thoughts do not belong to me. It always feels rather magical to have an idea and most of the time I don’t feel happy receiving the credit for it. I feel like a fraud, like a pretender.  People in older times were somehow humbler. They believed in the existence of the Muses, and I find this very agreeable. How wonderfully humble that idea is! I produce something, but only if I am inspired by the gods. So ‘...
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A Girl’s Lament Under the Candy Sky



Walking in the park is my daily routine. The same trees, the same sky and even the same blades of grass appear under my feet, day after day. And yet, everything is as new as it can be. 

An assault on my sence of hearing made me look quickly to my left. The bushes and shrubs were covering the base of a huge tree, where, I could guess, a group of girls were arguing with each other. The voice of one of them was overwhelmed with emotion. She was lamenting something, wailing in her sorrow. Most likely it was just some mundane girls' stuff but for her it must have been very important. And somehow an insight struck me how awfully over the top our emotions usually are. At times, even small things make us feel as if this is the end of the world. 

The sky above was of the colour of pink candy. So ridiculously over the top. 
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