Relax. It is mid-summer. It is holiday. If you’re still working right now, and have the ability to drift, please drift.
Be slightly late, have five seconds more daydream.
Relax the muscles under your eyes, relax the muscles holding the back of your head upright. Why do you clench so much? Your jaw asks to be released, please do.
The sun rises so early, sets so late in the evening, the endless possibility is sometimes more pleasurable than the endless doing. Nothing is expected of you this second.
No guilt, no shame, no recriminations, you don’t owe anything, and nothing is owed to you, at least for the next five minutes, the next five days.
A stopped clock is correct twice a day; a motivational poster is correct twice a year. Allow a cliché to come forth, it’s okay, you don’t need to be constantly profound. Pinks and purples, blues and greens.
It’s well to remember the last poem in “Through the Looking Glass” when Lewis Carroll speaks of
A boat beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July-
but Edward Lear, a few hazy miles away at precisely the same moment, was writing this instead:
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.