Small Pleasures, by Wassily Kandinsky

is it a dream? it shouldnt be, no. oh my, the everything, the fluttering of things and energy uncontainable and beautiful. and its out in front for all the beautiful people—me and you, you and your dog, your cat and your darling friends. so much candy and warmth and summery good.

On the edges, there are barriers that prevent them from ever leaving. Not that they care—the world they know is full of the smallest pleasures that occupy them forever. Fleeting moment of bliss after another, in all different shades and shapes. Out here, someone would call with an outstretched hand, tempting anyone within reach with some new tasty morsel, thrust out without regard to whom might take it.

oh the statues in the distance watching...the clouds shifting, the dancers drifting, the aromas wafting up up to the ceiling up high. the great red sun—wonderful and round, radiating this wrinkled energy onto the surface, vibrating the ground, seizing capturing lovely

The hills stretch on for miles and centuries, like fossils or promises. The platform on which the hopeful ones stand—it may be shorter, but it is no less daunting in its constitution, its enviability. So people go there, and think beautiful thoughts about love, and life, and death, and the pleasantness of flowers and white clouds; and then they jump and fall, though it isn’t really a fall. It is more of a slow, downward caress; there’s no panic at all—only a washed over feeling that submerges.

im traveling so fast, you see? on and on and on we go, through this endless tunnel. to where, to here, to there and back again though we know not where here nor there is. the landscape looks so familiar and yet so new all the time. what are those fuzzy circles out afar, hanging there, but new people yet to have sprung out and be taken by this place?

There’s a mountain, and where there’s a mountain there’s a mountaintop. They all want to get to the mountaintop, even if they do not know it. This place is filled with mystery and mythology and eternity, and the climb will never end. Not that it matters to them—the fun, if that is the right word, is in the journey, and the scenery in between. Ask them, they won’t answer. They’re looking, searching, never finding what they’re looking for, but always finding something better.

and we live and we live, on and on, until all the colors begin to blend and swirl so it all looks the same, and we’ll still be happy

we’ll still go on

and on

still