the blues

I flew out of a funk late last week and into an indigo palette of sky that admonished the horrible thinking that paced my previous evening’s run. “Colours,” I huffed. “Boring,” I puffed. “World. Needs. More. Colour,” as I blew any shred of a good mood away. You see, I had spent that afternoon perusing pixels and shopping for shades so as to paint the wall of this blog. I was uninspired by my options, and blamed the inadequacies of refraction, and bemoaned a lack of conical stimulation on par with the 101 ways you can cook a potato. (Only 101 ways? What I am supposed to eat the other 264 days of the year? Blppft.) Though Nature could be charged for my sour attitude, all right, it wasn’t Her hue deficiency that was the problem. This, I realized as soon as the Babe and I were sufficiently elevated so as to glimpse the gossamer bed of marshmallow that lay below us, the net that caught me as I was falling, veneered with the numberless blue stains I searched for vainly not 24 hours prior. Blues of grey and blues of gold and blues of purple lifted me up, up and away, and into an air thick with gratitude, if not with oxygen. Breathing deeply, I made myself as comfortable as one can get in the upright seated position, peered into the Heavens with my baby, and ruminated on the most chromatic year of my life. Nature, She dresses well.