Monochrome [Flash Fiction]

Would I prefer snow to the drizzle that seems terminally expressed by the color of the weather these last several days, a mood evoked by the grayness of today and yesterday and the day before that? Perhaps I would–what would I? Another question to beget other questions about weather and mood.

My soul is romantic, I imagine, or so I say I do, whether I actually imagine effectively or not on if I have soul, or what a soul could be, how it would interact with me–is consciousness separate from this thing we call soul. Here in the United States where we speak English, soul and mind are separate.

I use the word ‘romantic’ in the same sense or senses as the term has when applied to the poetry of Byron, of Shelley, of Keats, of Wordsworth, of Coleridge–I could go on, but will stop here. No, I won’t. It has lost it’s steam, though, hasn’t it, this idea or ideal I have about romanticism–or is it romantisme, as we used to say–some of us, anyway–in the English Majors’s Lounge. I am a reflection of the violence of nature; I am sturm und drang? What could I mean by this–and saying this means what? I could ask, but do not, knowing what I mean by what I say when I say what I have said here, saying not in itself meaning, though, is it? Costume and scenery are not enough to carry a play, of course we think we know. But meaning without saying is what? is next to impossible, no?

It is finally snowing. These last several days have been miserable.


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