My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk. Ahh that post tax return feeling. You can’t beat it.
No more numbers to crunch, no more forms to fill, no more boxes to tick, no more money to spend. The reassuring sensation of feet touching rock bottom, bathed by the waters of impecunity, cleansed of the stain of financial security.
Now we can begin again, unburdened by the weight of wealth. We can step more lightly, tread more freely, smile more brightly. Spring draws near; the days are stretching out; flowers are popping their pretty heads above the ground; hark! there sings the Mistle Thrush.
We, without our old skins, are prepared. Stripped bare and hosed to meet the coming year. Lean and nimble in our birthday wear, our wits cut sharp, our needs and purpose clear: to gambol on the verdant pastures new, and find ourselves fresh bounty in the fields, as lambs upon the juicy stems do chew, and steadily grow fat on nature’s yields. We’ll warm ourselves and bathe in glistening pools, and sniff the wind and sense the coming rain. And sure enough we’ll wear that cloak of wool, until we’re ready to be fleeced again.
