The Bowler Hat

I imagined that the bowler hat, that I bought a few months ago, and wore even fewer times, spoke to me, and I imagined how surprised I felt, and then I realised that all these were imagined, and then I continued to imagine that the bowler hat said these to me,

"I would like to go to Japan in the Spring time and watch the sakuras bloom and wither for an entire month. It would be ideal, if I could also attend the awa odori and get drunk and join in the parade for a while. And if given the chance, I would also want to spend an entire week watching snow fall in a Shinto temple's garden, sometimes while listening to the tanukis' snore.

"But, seriously, what are the chances for a black bowler hat with lofty aspirations to go on a cultural tour of the Orient. For if I were you," with 'you' meaning me, "and I were to be lucky enough to go for these colourful gay cultural events, I, too, won't feel like bringing me along. I'd remind me too much of dreading work, of the working class, of Sisyphus, of the boring etcetera, etcetera. The colours won't even match, imagine the picture of a black bowler hat against the bright blue skies and delicate pinks and white? How inappropriate is the irony of a black bowler hat to enjoy the jolly drunken celebration of living for the reckless moment? It would jeopardise spoiling the good mood of the party.

"Sigh! Nowadays, it seems that one of the most esteemed qualities of a bowler hat is to be reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, and to make light of the mundane etcetera, etcetera."

I wondered if the bowler hat would feel better if I tie something silly to its puggaree.

I had bought the bowler hat in celebration of Magritte's paintings.