I guess from time to time one finds oneself disappointed. Unless of course, you’re an evolved piece of social media garbage who buys into the suspending expectations tribe then you don’t.
Enid Blyton wrote a book titled The Enchanted Wood and I’ve borrowed it from AT to read it. I recognise that it’s much too late for me to read a kids’ novel. I’m not six anymore. I don’t believe in the unknown. I’ve bought into the whole Grinch act. However, this morning something inexplicable made me want to read it, and in a move that had shocked me, I now have it on my Kindle.
And then, this day came by as days do. Just that on this occasion, I was sorely disappointed by most of it. This day fell in one swoop of quiet crashing such that I looked at it and watched it with the wordlessness of it all. As I write this, I picture it lying on the ground and I want to turn my back on it. I used to recognise the wordiness of rage but now I identify with the silence of being let down.
Suffice to say, I am deeply disappointed by everything that has come to pass today.
But maybe the borrowing of The Enchanted Wood is a good diversion? Maybe there’s magic? Maybe there is a secret door? Maybe there are fairies on the moon?
Who’s to say, really?