t was a perfect day, if a day in fact it was: indistinct around the
edges, indefinable from one instant to the next, but possessed of a striking
clarity at its centre. Detail and colour exploded in every leaf, every bramble,
every twig. Fascination trickled out from the merest crack, crevice and stain.
Each passing face and fleeting form vibrated with a wealth of possibilities.
The sun could be rising or setting, high over head or reflected from the cold
disc of the moon: the specific conditions did not matter. Every moment of the
day merged seamlessly between its predecessor and successor, while still
conveying a unique significance that was wholly of its own possession. Perhaps at the start I woke to find faces peering at me from out of the wood grains, and from within the folds of the curtains. In seeing these I understood for the first time that the surface, rather than being the conclusion of things, was no more than a beginning. Once I came to terms with this, I welcomed them all - regardless of whether their countenances conveyed joy or hostility. Outside, the light of the morning was creeping across rolling, green hills; conjuring inside of my thoughts a longing of a kind that need never be satisfied. I could wander endlessly across them, free of concern for a destination: only the company of that warming melancholy was necessary.
In the stark brilliance of the afternoon, I crawled amongst the oil-stained wreckage of old factories, and wormed my way into the rotting hearts of their long-dead machinery. Remnants of the lives they had fed themselves upon were still in evidence: folded up inside the drawers of rusted metal cabinets, or taped upon the walls in newspaper clippings and dirt-smudged glossy photographs. The atmosphere of corruption settled through my skin and brought a malicious edge to my enthusiasm. I can still clearly remember capering with the nervous glee of a vandal around the bonfires that I had conjured from scattered items of clothing and an up-ended sofa, throwing in whatever flammable objects that I had not decided to keep for myself. That these actions might bear any greater consequence I did not give a mind to; and thus it was with an even more profound rush of exhilaration that, emerging into the daylight once again, I looked up to find the horizon split apart by a monstrous, black pillar of smoke.
In the evening I watched a purer form of darkness settle between the
interlaced branches of trees that climbed endlessly up into the sky. Once my
vision was utterly removed from me, I listened to these trees as they muttered
in their subdued, creaking voices until my consciousness was at last siphoned
back into sleep. I think I dreamed of that same house again: this time with
birds hovering in near-static flight patterns through the empty garage, and
with faceless animals wrestling amongst the muddy flowerbeds in the rear yard.
I left through the gate, leaving - this time, I knew - for good, in a sense
where return would no longer be possible or desirable. I woke into the sorry
imperfection of the following day, comforted by the knowledge that, although
only a dream for the present, this act at least would become true in time.
M10a(5)