I walked again this afternoon. And how different everything looked then under the much balmier weather; and how much happier the magical tree seemed to be this time with its occupants the birds, and crows and all the doves feasting together; like a happy family. And how lovely the quiet streets under the afternoon sunshine and the cottages and trees and birds and the music they create and so blissfully gift the world with.
I’m thinking soon I should start walking outside only in the afternoons when the weather is warmer, and use the tunnels in the morning instead. But then I will be missing all the glories that can only transpire in the early hours of the day—things that become visible to the fascinated eye only in the early light. But alas, doesn’t each hour have its own riches and magic to bestow?
As I walk I'm naturally writing my thoughts and feelings in my mind... writing-writing-putting thoughts together; interpreting all I see and hear into feelings that I later would literally put into writing. This afternoon, however, I noticed, much to my surprise, that I'm thinking in English rather than in my mother's tongue, as I have done so all my life. And whatever has happed to the language I so dearly love? Something in my mind must have been switched, I’m sure. And how strange, that my thoughts are emerging in such peculiar arrangements, because rather than seeing it as a gain, this is a demise of one's self; a sense of the loss in a way, and evident in my limitations.
Thus, nothing I write can convey real power; in neither language. Communication of emotions and inner feelings may help develop some mental skills, but feelings are somehow lost in translation; and certainly my capability to express my emotions is less than impeccable. That’s the downfall of bilingualism.