I find myself thinking that over and over again.

As I read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s letters to his daughter, affectionately dubbed ‘Pie’.

“A whole lot of people have found life a lot of fun. I have not found it so. I feel that it is your duty to to accept the sadness, the tragedy of the world we live in, with a certain esprit.”

Yes Mr Fitzgerald, I shall try my best too.

As I sit in the Company Gardens with the best kind of friends, the old ones. The half moon, the Autumn leaves and dappled sunshine making me feel that elusive sense of wonderment.

As I listen to Iron Moon by Chelsea Wolfe and inspect a line on my face – dare I say a wrinkle? I worry too much for it to be from smiles.

As I wander between my bedroom, my balcony and my kitchen and wonder whether it is the human condition to feel constantly tossed between waves of boredom, melancholy and excitement. Sunday funday could just as easily be Sunday sadness.

“Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds” – Sonnet 94, Shakespeare.