Between this and that.

My corner of Ireland lies smart with frost this morning, all ready for either war or a picnic. The brash, noisy sun calls forest and fields to attention under the crisp refulgent sky in which we are all suspended. 

The river gurgles and eternity shoots off in all directions. Beyond hedges and hedgehogs and from the safety of coffee and the smell of last night’s little alcohol, my heart finds itself inhabited by some unnamed tenderness, a confidence that exists perhaps only in contrast to the madness of a suppurating world. 

I notice that of late I’ve neglected Camus and Kierkegaard, paid them scant regard, so I reach for Camus and hide my soul once again between Yes and No, between This and That. Sometime after lunch I’ll come down on one side or the other, but till then I’ll just sit here and feel all existential and full of possibility.