Admirers off Laziness

at 25 half All(E)y, the colors of golden leaves melt with the silvery gleam of the sky. It's quiet in the house. Thoughts are rolling, checking any movement that the seemingly immobile clouds make. Through their miniscule movements are unfolding words told long time ago when Ye Kids were wee lassies/laddies. Little do they remember when it comes to the precise narrative lines, the plot, or, some such shit. Many years have passed since then. Also, many things have happened and the world has really changed since the time when they were told stories day in, day out. Almost ceaseless counterrites have been a major portion of these happenings. They are energy-consuming, to say the very least. But, perhaps more than all of it together, the main reason for the neglect of the narrative lines or any fucking, supposedly prominent, detail in the stories of such a tremendous significance is that there have always been other—more interesting, more informative, more fulfilling—aspetcs of storytelling. That's why they endure through all these years. That's why words unfold with the movements of the clouds. That's why they fill the interior with the shades of golden fusing with brightly shining silver.

Ye Kids, despite being kids, sometimes feel old. Maybe because they are tired. Maybe beacuse they just like surrendering to the guidance of the natural gift of laziness. The former is self-explenatory. Not particularly enticing. The latter, though, is always worth considering. Ye Kids like to approach it maximally charged with the grooviologist spirit coz only then is it possible to truly experience the ultimate benefit of that arcadian state. At moments like this, they like to totally tune to the silent unfolding words, seemingly forgotten, and yet present all these years. Now in leaves, now in clouds, they've been making manifest an inexplicable exchange whose reciprocal character exceeds an explication in causal and/or temporal terms. While fine-tuning the intensity of listening, the reign of laziness—which should by no means be confusedly equated with idleness--is being soaked with a sweet mixture of bordom and latent saddness. Such a hybrid emotion infuses in the atmosphere a shade of rich red, orange marbled web.

Ye Kids are heavily drawn towards that innate indulgence in a half-revealed symbolic of childhood stories. They find themselves completely occupied with plethora of miniatures being poured out of the slowly moving clouds. Clouds like rivers. Thoughts like the admirerers of hard-headed constancy amidst perpetual mutability. That's how they learned to love laziness.