The complications of being human

Finally it is fragrant spring--sensual spring--and happy is my heart that the snow has long-last melted; no longer does my soul feel captive and tortured; no longer does my heart feel as though it is slowly freezing deep into a mechanical stasis--what a scientist might term Death--from which it shall never wake. I incant: Spin vortex spin! Impregnate me with inspiration and dreams that transcend my robot-like physiology! And I lament: If only my beloved ferret were still alive--not a victim to the frozen world but a hero in the verdant one--if only he were bounding through the open fields, squeaking in strange, primordial rhythms, bristled fur wrinkling down his tube-like body like salty ocean waves. And I wonder: Would he, like me, feel the strange and frustrating ambiguity of April memory and April desire? Would he, like me, feel slightly disappointed after the high expectations of winter? Or are ferrets utterly blind to feeling, as popular Biology professes?

Through sheer power of will, I quiet my pestering thoughts and remove my clothes to roll through the fragrant fields of chamomile flowers. I roll sensually towards a pretty rill located at the bottom of a bumpy slope, and I weep, and I wonder: Are these tears of rage or are they tears of joy? Or am I so utterly pedestrian that they are the standard tears of sadness like those felt by an adolescent over the synchronicity of an unrequited love and a fresh batch of pimples? I know not, for I know nothing... I know only that they are tears--real ones at that--and that my knowledge is not true. No, I am not satisfied, no... No... I am not content to merely roll--instinctively merged--man and terra firma--beautiful but without the satisfaction of an Epistemology that resonates and rings throughout the entire core and being.

I roll... I roll... Growing older as I go...