Consciousness

I was not happy when I was picking potatoes it was autumn it was cold it was raining my wellingtons were covered in mud my hands were covered in mud and when I washed my hands under the hot tap my fingers suffered from hot-aches

All of these recollected feelings as well as some that I have doubtless forgotten conspire to convince me that I was not happy when I was picking potatoes

I was happy laying out on the grass it was spring it was dry it was warm there was sunshine and the nearness of the sea I was wearing one of my favourite shirts a soft fabric with quite wide stripes of green and silver

I have a photograph somewhere of this occasion and thanks to the feelings which I can remember and those that have slipped my mind or for some unknown reason I have excluded combine to convince me that yes I was happy laying out on the grass

Somewhere sometime between the being happy and the being unhappy I have sought out the joy and the solace of pen and paper I am reminded to do so again now as I watch Carl Jung's The World Within In His Own Words

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