A friend recently reminded me of a quote from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran: "For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed."

I am not always good at holding onto this. Life, it seems to me, is a series of complex and unsafe mazes which I have to puzzle out, with snares set for the unwary, where meaning, reason and motivation are in short supply. I was in one of my claustrophobic traps the other day, when it came to me that this is perhaps the flip-side to my creativity.

It also effectively blocks my creativity. Blunts my curiosity, my wonder at the sea's waves and their casual ferocity, declaring this is what we do, we're waves, we splash, we break. I don't like it that in this mood I might miss the joy in little things. The pungent freshness - privet, grass, nameless weed, dark earth sodden after rain. Four puffed up pigeons in a puddle, like four fat businessmen discussing their affairs in a Turkish bath.

Do I need reason to breathe and meaning to get up in the morning? For I do take in oxygen, reason-less, I do rise, meaning-less.