Prospective

adj. "imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia"|






It's a little early to have retirement plans (especially when I haven't even begun to work), but what's stopping me from dreaming of living in a cottage that is over looking a lake with a posh English name (Lake Windermere, Buttermere, Derwentwater)? 

Just think. 

Waking up to golden rays that filter through my window blinds. Without the usual hustle and bustle to rush me out of bed, my eyes can take their time to adjust to the light and even be hypnotised by the kaleidoscopic motion of dust particles bombarding into smaller surrounding particles - a theory from decades past that would had settled to the bottom of my memory bank. I take three steps forward and find myself in front of the bathroom mirror (if you can even call it a bathroom with just a sink and a mirror that is only big enough to frame my face). Taking a good 15 minutes to brush my teeth has always been, and will always be, a morning ritual and in the meantime, I'll brew a fresh pot of coffee and wait for the rich aroma to permeate the air, leaving me instantly refreshed. There's no need for modern diffusers with their high-tech mechanisms or expensive essential oils when you have a simple kettle and your favourite brand of coffee, I call this fragrance scent au naturale ;) 

Good weather calls for a picnic by the lake. Nope. No sushi takeaways or fried snacks skewered together with satay sticks from Old Chang Kee from yesteryear's 'picnic' menu. Just a simple platter of homemade sandwiches accompanied with freshly squeezed orange juice in a basket and a book of compiled poetries from over the years and I'm all set to go. The lake is filled with gaggles of geese and pockets of people who too have come to enjoy the beauty that is nature. The rolling hills, the lush greenery, the endless blue sky, the shimmering lake... I begin with the baby spinach and chicken breast sandwich, and a love poem. 

With thee conversing I forget all time;
All seasons, and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train: 
But neither breath of Morn when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, 
Or glittering star-light without thee is sweet.

Perhaps by the fourth poem will I feel for a switch of activities, say lying down and making out shapes in the passing clouds. A pair of lips, a castle, a sheep doing a handstand. Soon the sun will be at the highest point in the sky and looking up no longer becomes bearable. What shall I do this afternoon? Watch a play? Get groceries? Write? Bake? 

Night time is easily my favourite time of the day. Pulling a stool out to the garden, I sit with my outdoor blanket wrapped tightly around me and a cup of hot cocoa. I hear the rustling of the leaves of the trees close by and pull the blanket even tighter. Why brave the cold when you could be warm and snug inside, you ask. Finally, the highlight of my day had come - the momentous hour that was marked with the appearance of the Jupiter, the Big Dipper, the Summer triangle, and if I was patient enough - the glistening trail of stars that glittered the Milky Way. 

At the end of it all, I prepare the fireplace and ready myself for a good night's rest. I bring out my book of poems again and conclude the night's activities with a Tolkien favourite:

I sit by the fire and think
of all that I have seen, 
of meadow-flowers and butterflies 
in summers that have been; 

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were, 
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair. 

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be 
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see. 

For still there are so many things 
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring 
there is a different green. 

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago, 
and people who will see a world 
that I shall never know. 

A yawn breaks the momentum of the poem and I knew that it wouldn't be long before I surrendered to sleep and dreams. 

But all the while I sit and think 
of times there were before, 
I listen for returning feet 
and voices at the door.



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