The Fool of Bute Park pt3

I sat there for at least an hour on the wall at the corner of The Boulevard de Nantes in front of the museum gardens, opposite Park Plaza Hotel, immobilised by thought, thinking about someone something some situation.

What if? Maybe? Touched very deeply and feeling it so.

Not strictly in Bute Park I know, but close enough to be the Fool anyway and close enough for my arse to eventiually go so numb that my only connection with the universe was the feeling of being compacted.

Then I led under a Pine Tree and listened to snippets of conversation.

Cardiff was buzzing and felt like a real city(again), as people lolled about in the sun, or kicked balls around in front of the museum.

I watched the people in their spring and summer finery, they all seemed so happy, with a sense of distinct purpose and I wondered whether it was all true, or whether it was 'front', 'keeping up appearances'? What hidden neuroses lay dormant below their surface?

Is it better to strive for your own way in the world or is it better to knuckle under, knuckle down? It's a question that I have asked myself everyday for a long time.

What tastes better? Success on your own terms? Or the Stability that a regular lifestyle provides? Does that stability in itself have a price to pay, a compromise to keep?

I feel and think too much and apparently ignorance is bliss.

I love bliss but have never been particularly fond of ignorance.

I am not a dreamer.