And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

I'm at the library again (corrects date and time accordingly), and I just had a revelation.
Some time ago, I started asking myself, why literature? Not only why study literature, but why literature in the first place. Now, I started reading a book on the theories of Derrida, Lacan and Kristeva, when it hit me. Literature is transformation. Writing is remaking the world in your own image, through your own perceptions, in your own words. Reading is entering the world through another door, or even entering completely different worlds that previously existed only in another person's imagination. And there, everything is possible. New ideas? Different ways of looking at things? Alternatives? Eye-openers? Literature.

Here's a field of flowers in the sunshine that we walk past.
Here's a host of golden daffodils that we will remember, for the poet has transformed them.

It only took me decades of being a reader and a writer to realize this. I hope I am not stating the obvious, like I usually do.

Alles neu macht der Mai

After the epiphany earlier today, or rather epiphanies, because it suddenly dawned on me that everything we make or do is, in a way, language (I wrote a whole page on the grammar of clothing), my brain told me it wanted some playtime and some change. On the way home, I supported my girly side by buying yet another nail polish (of the shade "Italian Lover", I wonder if the colour will attract the same) and matching lipstick, and then spent the evening meddling with my journal layout. It's now green. As is usual with change, it will take some getting used to, and I might change the grass for a picture of a meadow with flowers, if I find one that is backgroundable.

edited to add: Instead of a meadow, I found peacock feathers. I like peacock feathers.