The celebration of self-obsession

I'm literally living the alternative life... not of someone caught in the daily rat-race but of an unsure artist in the making. I do feel that as the hours flee, I am more intensely a wistful character portrayed through sing-song in a Faithfull ballad or a Joan Baez number. Or better still, Marianne Faithfull herself when in 1968, the long-haired and quiet blonde acted with Alain Delon in a short artistic film clip that was highly romantic and this; minus the tragedy involved. I tiptoe in silence, afraid to make a noise for so beautiful is the scene of my seasonal celebration, that I am afraid a whiff of blinding disillushionment may capture the scent in the air. I could be walking on roses, sleeping on air...that's how carefree a swinging heart feels.
My life is now revolved completely around my books, my writing, my letters, my long walks, my poetry, my planned trips to promenades and the cold Irish sea, my friends and other niceties. I can choose the colours to slot in my hours...the time to rise and then to sleep again in muted disbelief. I can choose when to party and when to dine, when to write and when to read. I have no commitments, no problems triumph and no shadows loom.
In short, I am the hippie who masquerades as the organised, well-showered and well-laundered individual. Everyday, I thrive on hugs and kisses. Shush! Do you spot my emblem of peace, the flowers in my hair or the beads that rub against my shoulders? Perhaps not, for they are secretly garlanded in my heart and walled in the protection of my spirituality.
When did the colour grey get pushed out the door? When did the days and hours ride the seasonal carousel of a heady celebration? I ask thoughtfully, receive no answers but regale only in my booming laughter.
Last evening, I walked into the sweet cold rush of a drizzle, a lone, gentle figure in the crowded streets of Dublin. How romantic the city lights, how cheerful its people, how evocative the atmosphere. The glistening pavements shone with the fiesty spirit of the blustery wind. I could have been resting somewhere in the burrows of Eden.
I think that perhaps it is all too good to be true... can a life be akin to so much treasure. I am afraid that I have inherited too much of the beautiful by mistake but maybe not.
Throw me confetti and I shall dance in the rain.