There’s something quite enchanting about darkness,
The mystical facets of childhood fairytales seem to tie endless lengths of string around breathless moments and pull them into a continuum of wondrous nostalgia. Those moments will never be the same—frozen, pulsing with resonant light. Perhaps it’s the lack of words which desperately yearn to escape from the confines of the speaker’s lips or the boundless concept of life pouring into the lower part of the hour glass, like the ever-evolving sands of time that causes a moment to stay perfectly imperfect. Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, as soon as something is spoken it dissipates into the air around it; it taints the energy it lives in.
When a moment is lived, it no longer exists and all that remains is the dance of vague moving images to inaudible, non existant music.
If all the world were monochrome and I had to choose a colour to paint across the globe, I’d choose the ever-changing hue of the vast sky so I could watch ancient clouds wend through the atmosphere—endlessly and aimlessly. There is something about the omnipresence of the sky as it gazes upon the worm’s meat of humanity—as it gazes upon it’s orgasms and it’s suffering—which gives the impression that it knows of the human existence but wisely chooses to ignore our perpetual state of anxiety and need for control; it’s almost as through it sits above us and smiles—just like the Tibetan Buddhist monk who looks upon their pupil with knowledgeable eyes and old laughter and says “the purpose of our lives is to be happy.” As the man, drowning in paper and expensive fabric, mindlessly trudges alongside the artistic dreamer—who has a heart full of paint and a paintbrush for a brain. There’s something quite magical about the dust of time’s remains and how it seems to scatter itself across the sky—sprinkling humanity with it’s past mistakes and heartache. A universe of mystery lies beyond the marlin blue blanket. So, as the man and his conquests continue to tread the concrete floor, the sky will wink and smile, in all it’s glory.
As I sat in the battered, brown chair—underneath the dull grey light which poured through the charity shop window—the ramblings of the shop floor’s very few occupants tumbled past my eardrums and numbly occupied my mind. “It’s not winter yet, is it. It’s still autumn.” The observant,curious intonation of Dean’s voice danced through the air. It made me release a subconscious chuckle. I thought that much was obvious—crumpled, golden leaves gathered in the corners of damp pavements.
When I look up at the multitude of colours in the sky,as they scatter themselves across the clouds, my mind wanders to that place of perpetual summer, where one spends endless nights running through fields as the sun sets or listening to the white crests of ocean waves kiss the sand as my lungs fill themselves with fresh, salty, sea air. To be present in a moment of transendental awe. ‘Tis wonderful to experience that visceral sense of glittering hope which one feels while gazing upon New York City, from the phallic structures which dominate the sky; to remain suspended in a seemingly perpetual oblivion—between the wordliness of ants and oceans of paper-induced adrenaline rush and the ambiance of a celestial realm which caress’ one’s spirit in hope of incarnating an intrinsic comfort to a being which symbolises the universe in ecstatic motion. ‘Tis the flow of energy. That’s what summer means to me; to relish in one’s own consciousness while simultaneously transcending beyond the realm of the proverbial box of human civilization; ‘Tis the transient being transcended.
So as the season shifts and time recedes before our eyes the realm of my mind also shifts to the dewy, autumn mornings when the water-speckled blades of grass bath in the cold, opaque sunlight; the lustrous radiance of the golden christmas lights dance with the buzz of warmth and elation which fills the air of the market; the heavily celebrated bass, electro dance and pop music of long summer nights, on the beach, is turned down and replaced with the soft lull of lounge piano, by the fire. The sticky mouths of children guzzle liquid chocolate and sweet pink fluff underneath the sprinkling of colours of the fairground Ferris wheel. Steaming, polystyrene cups of mint and green mushy peas fill frozen hands and soft knitted wool cuddles running red noses as stars explode, in the sky, above the bonfire. As ice cube moulds and transparent jugs are shoved into a cardboard box, shop shelves are filled with a multitude of selection boxes and tubs filled with foil covered glory. ‘Tis a blessing in disguise when denim ‘Levi’ shorts and string-tied bathing suits remain in the back of the wardrobe and knitted Christmas snowmen, on jumpers, take their place.
What a wonder it is to ponder upon the confusion of shifting seasons; how one era dissipates and melts into the next; how time recedes before our very eyes. Our minds remember fragments; our existence is fragmented. All that exists is subjective and exists in our minds. When we remember our childhood, we imagine snapshots and photographs; we imagine fragments of what has been. So when we imagine our concept of winter and autumn—our mental schemata—we see images and remember sensations which we associate with these phenomena—otherwise known as classical conditioning. Take moments with yourself to imagine that which tickles your senses; that’s what matters in life—it recedes anyway.