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The trees quiver in the light stirrings of air that unsettle their leaves. And on a small spurt of breeze, a sweeping wave of light passes over the small ripplings of the leaves.
I'm particular aware of how the Impressionists viewed life right now. Within those rustling branches that I watch from my bed in the morning sunlight I can see the way the painters sought to catch that movement, that dappling flecking sunlight that illuminates a multitude of colours in an instance and how those colours dance and flit lightly. I can see so well how those brushstrokes came to be and what they sought to capture. I seem reasonably at ease, probably a little sad. I think theres a certain heaviness lying over me today, its not a heaviness that I shrugged off either. What lies here is only a few scraps of my thoughts over the past 24 hours. This groggy unease and heaviness does not lift despite such illuminated visions, perhaps I'm just a shrinking violet right now...