Spring Sprout

I saw the first sprouts on the trees, those on Cabot Square and lining West India Avenue. I am positive that I didn't see them even last week - not even yesterday - then again last night I came back to London tired, exhausted and mortified by all the varieties of measures British Railway has to screw up my journey (this time I got a new one, unavailability of driver - they are probably also running out of imagination).

It's already unclear when I adopted the most important motto of my life, which is to allow oneself excited over the most trivial details of life. It has to be after my intentionally dark years of teenage illusions, when I only allowed Existential philosophy, gloomy rock and Trip Hop, as decorations of those days. Surely, on the subtropical banks of the Pearl River, where faceless seasons flow by, a spring is hardly an excitement. I was only annoyed by the impossible humidity of those Aprils.

Now I am amazed by the richness and innocence of all these angelic greens. These tiny leaves, dancing in the spring breeze like flash lights in a most sweet dream.

And now I have a new chapter to start. A new spring.