what a story, martine. i wish i could think, like you.

Today, I am going to blog without *as much* pretext - mostly this, to tell you that there will be no pretext.

Because I saw something. And quite truly it isn't every day that one sees something - that you remember - that - when you see it - you say, 'yes, yes, tomorrow I will remember this' and then tomorrow think, 'I remember this' and so it goes until it's in your memory and you don't remember where it came from. yes, so it goes. I remember it, even now! Even though it was only Wednesday that I saw it, I remember it like it was yesterday, and even though it kind of was, it seems like longer, and I feel prouder that I remember.
There, in the bush. I was in the car. I wasn't driving, mum was. Down southish. Looking out the window, off the beaten track, near a dam. Very few people around. Bush echoed my song for 4 seconds. Maybe, 5pm? Something nearing duskish. I was just sitting and looking. And then I'm thinking, if the world moves it's tilt every day, if every we move just a little more away from the sun towards winter, everyday the sun must shine differently, be it centimetres, metres, incomprehensible difference to the human capacity for understanding. It must. It just has to. There to my left is a tree. It's only a little one, not high, not old. And it's there and it's alight. The sun is shining on it, it's like it's in it's moment, this is the glory moment for this little tree. Any earlier, and the sun would have been at a different angle and shining on other trees around it, any later and the light would have faded. This is it. This moment in time. Any other day, the sun may well have moved, changed, the tilt might have set it off. This one day, this one time, this is the glory time of this tree, and I am there seeing it. This wave of thought, just engulfs me and I can't get out - I think, if I hadn't been here to see this, this tree might not get it's dues. Then, what would it be? A tree? No one would ever know it's glory, it's story. It would just be a tree. It wouldn't have the capacity to know that it had once been something, had it's heyday, shone, like no other tree in the forest, when all other light had gone. It wouldn't know - I wouldn't know - and the world would be a worse place for no one knowing of this beauty.

And I despaired that everyday, this happens, that the world gets worse as beauty happens and is, and no one ever knows, or tells it's story. And it's the stories that keep us coming back for more.