Sunday, February 11

Pointless post.

Being able to talk with people who enjoy the same things, be those things of any variety:

sitting on swings; walking and walking and walking until you get past aching; kneeding dough with little thought for the finished product, but simply the enjoyment of the kneeding dough; speaking in foreign languages with the joy of not being able to rant or debate in that language, yet removed to being more simplistic due to an ignorance of that other language; whatever it may be, being able to have someone else simply 'get' what you're on about, and being able to 'get' what they're on about: it makes you want to live, takes away the distance. I'm sure I've attempted - and failed - to articulate my own ponderings on the idea that we are unable, psychologically to fully understand ourselves, therefore no-one else can have much hope, but if there is an acceptance, in a way, that is enough.

This weekend I read some poems I'd not read for ages, from a children's poetry book. Some of them don't even seem like 'poems' to me really now - in the way that I wouldn't recognise them as a poem unless I was sort of instructed that they were. Anyway, the route of attempting to define poetry is one I am not going to try walking down today.

There was one poem which my aunty showed me because she knew my reaction: it was basically a praise-song of words, touching upon some of the delightful things they permit us to do. It was a raise-the-shoulders-and-half-smile-in-contentment moment.

This was a pointless post. Sometimes points occur, more often they simply don't. Humans like 'points', I think; without them there wouldn't be much.