Not quite enough blue in the sky to make a sailors suit, but enough to bring a half smile to my lips as I wander down to the mailbox at the end of the drive. This is my one reliable daily exercise, as certain as is the pang for dinner at 5.00pm or fresh brewed tea on any given afternoon spent relaxing in my cottage. Habits are ingrained through desire or because of convenience. It is most necessary to break an existence into nicely manageable segments, that can be successfully accomplished and chalked up as personal victories. Transforming banality quite successfully into a triumphal crescendo, turning stagnation into progression.
Art is appraised and valued by the beholder; success is equally erroneous. The individual alone truly knows their position upon the staircase to perfection, for only they can pronounce how that most illusory commodity is to be judged.
My daily stroll up and down the driveway quite accurately documents my condition, physically, emotionally, psychologically. A measure of my being, an unrepentant test.