A notice on description

Today, I noticed things.

I noticed the squished conkers crunching again under the car tyres as I drove to work, and the conker-like man, a Danny DeVito lookalike, from the back at least, a shiny tan leather jacket and a nut brown tonsure exposing the paler crown.

I saw that again, now for the third day, the traffic lights at the crossroads were literally on the blink, flashing only the amber light to all directions while above the clouded sky looked like grey metallic velvet, rubbed up the wrong way.

Blue emergency lights reflected briefly from the river as I crossed the bridge, and at the next lights I saw the raindrops/smear/raindrops/smear patten on the windscreen of the car in front; looking in my wing mirror the rain fell like straw, all pale sticks lit up by the headlights of the car behind.

I hadn't noticed the drive to work for a while, I am not sure for how long, and as I observe the bus ooze up into the lay-by beside me, and a nearly teenage girl start running towards it, towards us, determination in every swing of the arm and bounce of the shoulder bag; as I see this I think about why I notice things today.

It is you, you feel like a permanent enough part of my life that I can pass the times we type to each with trivia, confidence that sometime soon I can lay my cloak of words over you and snuggle underneath with you; and I notice, notice that all this is only built from words and I don't know whether to press the send button and bring you to my side...

also posted at 6S here, this post was prompted (not only by a drive to work) but by a conversation in 6S whereby it was implied that poor description was only to be expected due to depression. I have been depressed before, and expect I will be again, but I always felt some of my best writing pieces to be products of perhaps a strong depressive state albeit mixed with frustration and anger at myself. Maybe I wanted to prove I could write in a more optimistic frame of mind too!