what day is it today
Books that used to offer a better home for the imagination, that took you on the same journey again and again and enthralled you so again and again, that were endlessly reinspiring, nourishing, comforting, the ones you turn to with eager eyes at the promise of a better world... turn stale before your very eyes.
Oh these are wicked cold eyes, are they devoid of sympathy? Those that have learned the wisdom of a cruel world, learned to judge when it was not their place to do so... you have killed the little girl climbing barefoot up trees and roofs, who ate grapefruits and spat them out, who had a little dog and didn't love her enough, and would still love you despite who you are now.
It is time to lay down, however reluctantly, the stories of childhood. I can hardly believe it, but it seems I have outgrown them. Because today, there are no such things as happy endings, courageous good people, and loyalty, destiny, sacrifice, trust.
It is terrifying. The future is terrifying.
You know you are getting old, that something is different and wrong, when you can recognise the melancholy and sorrow in the chirpy exuberant works of Handel, Corelli and the dance suites of Bach. Along with much of the Classical repertoire, I used to think they were distasteful because they were too superficially happy, empty and devoid of greater emotion. But now I understand it was I who was unable to understand that there is great sadness in the simplicity of happy music.
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