Because of the Sunshine

When you spend eight hours in a factory
Everything gets dirty and grimy
Your pants, your hair, your brain
Not that you get potty-brain
More like your thoughts get stiff and can't move around, and just need to be flushed out
And your head needs to be refilled

I was biking home this afternoon, and it was beautiful
Sunshine and wind and flowers
The thing that mostly was refreshing was the smell
From under me there rose this hot, earthy breath
Warm vegetation and dirt
On the wind there was a strange hint at gooseberries, which sent my mind back to my childhood.

I stopped at a metal bridge on the trail and leaned against the railing to just breathe and think and almost snooze.
Under my arms was the smell of hot rust, and under that was the smell of stream: wet, mucky, and a little fishy.
And I leaned and let the wind run over me and the smell flushed out the factory from my lungs and the sun scrubbed out my eyes and let me see how bright the world is.
I can't explain how much I love nature. When I'm outside on a sunny day, I sometimes think I'm going to just explode with happiness.
I just want to lie down and be warm and happy in nature's pomp and frivolity.
I don't know what I'm saying anymore, because I have no idea how to say what it is.
Euphoria?
Joy?
Rapture?
Excitement?
They don't fit.

Bah.

I read one of the best pieces of book I've ever come across today.
As a bit of background, the book "What's Wrong With the World" by G.K. Chesterton is just him ranting about how men want their own property, and women should stay at home and not vote, and that education is weird. Basically, he wants to bring down the idea that if we don't like society, we should learn to adapt to it. He wants society and culture and whatnot to fit humanity, not vice versa. Makes sense...
Anyhow, here it is, my favourite bit of the book, from the very end:

Now the whole parable and purpose of these last pages, and indeed of all these pages, is this: to assert that we must instantly begin all over again, and begin at the other end. I begin with a little girl's hair. That I know is a good thing at any rate. Whatever else is evil, the pride of a good mother in the beauty of her daughter is good. t is one of those adamantine tendernesses which are the touchstones of every age and race. If other things are against it, other things must go down. If landlords and laws and sciences are against it, then landlords and laws and sciences must go down. With the red hair of one she-urchin in the gutter I will set fire to all modern civilization. Because a girl should have long hair, she should have clean hair; because she should have clean hair, she should not have an unclean home; because she should not have an unclean home, she should have a free and leisured mother; because she should have a free mother, there should not be a usurious landlord; because there should not be a usurious landlord, there should be a redistribution of property; because there should be a redistribution of property, there shall be a revolution. That little urchin with the gold-red hair, whom I have just watched toddling past my house, she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict's; no, all the kingdoms of earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken, and the roofs of ages come rushing down; and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.


Ok , so my thought on that bit. First, a lot of semicolons! And possibly one of the longest sentences known to man. But I agree with the point of it. People should not change so that they can fit into a social form. The social form should be moulded around what is good and natural for a human. Does any other way make sense? Not really, no. He did go a bit Martin Luther King at the end there eh? But as the closing bit of a very thought-provoking book, I enjoyed it verr much. I also like the clarity of metaphor and thought that he has. Props.