Wild Flowers

So you wake up one morning, you don't know how to feel. It's a day without a users' guide. You have your breakfast, muesli with low-fat milk and a mug of vanilla coffee. You get dressed and you stare at a blank page for 10 minutes, you don't know what to draw. Put down the pen, sigh heavily, and log on to see if anyone else is online. Over your left shoulder the blank page on the easel haunts. Phone rings. Uncle needs a lift. Put on your lensed-shades, put on a jacket of some extinct leather fashion, purchased in a moment of joy when an ex-girlfriend commented how good it looked on you. Sometimes you can still smell her scent on it. Armed against sunlight and armed against bad omens by the good memories of the jacket, you walk out to the car, weight of which is probably doubled because of all the dirt on it. It doesn't bother you. The sunlight is fluorescent, thanks to the uniform cloud cover. Nothing harsh about it. You unlock the door and suddenly a cool breeze fills your nostrils with the smell of a thousand nameless wild flowers, and for the first time in the day, you look around and see. They're everywhere, these flowers, weeds, herbs, trees, etc... Corners of your lips turn up involuntarily. Get in the car, put on some music and drive off with the windows rolled down all the way. You're not happy exactly, but it doesn't matter. There will be flowers somewhere when you're laughing, crying, hurt, tense, stressed out, extatic, or depressed. You come back and the blank page is no longer an enemy. It's a friend who's ready to listen.