It's April. The nights are getting longer. The clocks have gone forward. Winter is retreating.
I WANT TO GROW!
But this stupid bloody bottle the blogger keeps me in is really restrictive.
...
Or perhaps the bottle is just a metaphor for life and I only allow it to restrict me because I perceive it that way. Maybe there is another way of thinking about this.
Hmmm...
4 comments:
Oh poor Bamboo, I know how you feel. The eternal vaccuum of space is my bottle. There's an infinite universe of places to waft around out there and here we are stuck in this infernal bell jar of a plant. In the grand scheme of things, it looks like both of us are missing virtually everything. Mind you if the blogger was to leave you a bit of extra water or paint the wall something other than white then it might help.
Harry the bit of air
I keep hinting that Terracotta, or perhaps a deep Mediterranean Blue might be better for this room, but he doesn't listen.
I appreciate your solidarity brother.
Bamboo:
Take solace in Wordsworth's words from his sonnet:
Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
William Wordsworth
Typical middle-class romanticism of the less well off that allows him to sit comfortably with his wealth and not help the poor.
I'd like to see him stuck in a bottle for months on end
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