If only, after every season of despair,
we could shed ours skins and souls,
and take on new ones.
We all are funambulists born.
Walking the tight rope, that is, life.
A stumble here and a fall there.
“Life is a peach!”, said the lord.
“No. It’s a pear”, wryly responded the queen.
“Oh cupcake, put on those rose-tinted glasses that I bought for you the other day!”
“I rather not. Why do you suppose the dark ones are all the fashion these days?”
“How about we take a walk down the lovely garden path and smell the lovely roses?”
“I rather not. The smoke from the burning heap of dry leaves, not far away from the garden, stings my nose and makes my eyes watery.”
“How about we pay a visit to the circus which has come to town and let them inject some cheer into this glum day?”
“I rather not. The sadness behind the elongated red smiles on white clown faces makes me look away.”
“Oh buttercup! Such cynicism will ruin your humour and health even further!”
“Thanks darling. But I rather just stick with a good book and knit for warmth in the harsh winters”.