A gust of wind may disarray hair, topple a tree, or whistle through reeds on a riverbank. What is it that topples people? Our conservative consciousness does battle with our flexible subconscious: humanity has a saving grace of flexibility and the tenacity to persevere despite our conscious apathy.
Profligate humanity, I am a daughter of Summer and I lie restlessly in her arms as she soothes me to sleep, and nightmares of the changing of the seasons flicker as her notes fade away.
My work is all done but one piece: I have reading to do, but my books lie untouched and my bedcovers are rumpled by my various attitudes.
I watch those around me, on buses, on campus, in shops. And my curiosity is piqued, wondering who, but for the saving vice of sloth, would have been the next Mozart, the next Casanova, the next Elizabeth Bathory. And my contacts with people knock me down, I lay gasping on the floor, groping for my sanity.
Then, slowly but surely my courage builds up and I find myself on my feet, not ready to face the day, but determined to do it anyway; I am the only obstacle of any note in my path to success and I will not impede myself on the way to glory.
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