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The simple life
What is simple anymore? Is it easy? Is it a routine? Is it dependability? Simple is different to different people I think.
Simple is snuggled in bed, on a Sunday morning, with rubbish TV that is still somehow pleasant. It's takeaways and bottles of cheap plonk. It's not having to even acknowledge the outside world exists, because everything you need, everything you want is right here, in your fingertips. That is your garden variety simple.
But I've never been simple. I want pillow fights, I want cooking from scratch and all the mess and clean up that entails. I want vodka on ice in a pair of hellishly sinful high heels you'd only see on a catwalk. I want a buzz, I want a flair. My blood runs with fire like it were a fine whiskey. I'm your typical aries hot head, and I chase trouble and challenges as a dog would a car.
In this cold climate, I burn hot as a star, and I'll die out just as slowly. Before anyone sees I will have burned away and faded, but my word what a show I will have been. And that, for me, will be simple.
Wooo oh o the simple things
What is it that we seek in the garden? A simple lawn to lay upon, gazing into the heavens or to watch the ivy grow until the mighty oak sucumbs.
this is not the end, this is not the begining of the end, this is merely the end of the begining.