I will be cheeky, there’s no denying it. I can no help it (she says with a rolling brogue) It’s in my nature to be particularly mischievous (now and again.) (or, more often than not, depending) (most of the time, really) (see what I mean!)

But it’s also in my nature to be pensive, to over-think things, and to live the life of a romanticist. I confess, I’m a sensualist; I love things, I don’t just like things. I am filled with passion and fire. I look at the clouds, I stare up at the stars (which I’m sure you’ve already figured out just reading my poetry) (so, somewhat irrelevant for me to bring it up again, really) (I’d hit delete, but it’s somehow easier to just keep rolling at this point). I’m sure you can relate on some level. After all, we’re all of a creative bent of mind here, to some extent at least, and as such, being in our right minds, we can appreciate the finer things without the burden of having to (necessarily) rationalize them (all the time).

Why should we, in point of fact? Why is it that we are taught to feel guilty about splashing through the cool puddle on a warm summer’s day? Why should we care if running with abandon through the gurgling stream or the wave’s fringe upon the shore results in spatters of mud or sand upon our trousers? How does it serve to feel compelled to rush to the dry cleaners after we take a flying leap into a pile of sweet smelling leaves? (you still do it, I know you do) After all, if the pleasure results in purgatory, is it really a pleasure?

Ok, I got way to deep there! I do apologize. Honourable Sorry! Yo, My Bad! Or what have you. This was supposed to be a giddy piece, not one that makes you scratch your head and puzzle until your puzzler is sore (like someone else I know) (or the Grinch, again, depending), although, admittedly, my whimsical posts do tend to degenerate into that sort of specific madness that results in a puzzled expression and a raised brow. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? Moving on…

I am, perchance, a “person” of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: Full of gibes, gambols, songs, and flashes of merriment that are wont to set the table on a roar (rather like Poor Yorick?) I am also, at times, far too much like Ophelia: a young maid (relatively speaking!) (not a word from the peanut gallery, thank you!) whose wits are as mortal as an old man’s life, which ultimately just leads us back to Yorick, so I suppose I’ll camp out here for a while. Nice cushy spot in the garden, after all!

Point? Actually, I do have one, but I dare say I made it already (missed it? I was a wee bit cheeky about it, (wink wink) do go back a bit… to paragraph 3, perhaps… Yep, there you go.) So at this stage of the game I’m really just blathering. I do enjoy a good natter, dontcha know! The com panel is jammed, Captain. Jar Jar Binks has gone off on a tangent, Obi Wan. There are clues lying about like sweets on Easter morning, Sherlock (or, if you prefer, like nicotine patches in 221B Baker St.)

Yes, I do tend to be a bit cheeky, now and again, but I know (or, at least I hope) you don’t mind.


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