Our lives are constructed for us, haphazardly, from splintered fragments of memories, half forgotten episodes that caused us something, occasions combining without mercy to form love - recurring chance. Slivers of life becoming full and then receding, memories invoked and then re-written, like the moon's monthly illusion, often lit but full of visible darkness, as heavy as a little planet stretching the tides, vast oceans rising up in hope to meet it.
Thinking back to my childhood is a strange but reoccurring adventure. Trying to somehow piece together the past, incidents that supposedly contributed to me feeling the way that I do. So much is lost, there are now only the vague prejudices that remain, the echoes of vanished experience, misplaced by a handful of noisy ghosts. We use anything to justify anything, without apology or explanation. The causes are mainly inaccessible, kept hidden and beyond reach. There is only the effect to contend with, with no route back. The forest is haunted by orbital sentries, the waning paths all lead back into unlit mystery.
Thinking back to my childhood is a strange but reoccurring adventure. Trying to somehow piece together the past, incidents that supposedly contributed to me feeling the way that I do. So much is lost, there are now only the vague prejudices that remain, the echoes of vanished experience, misplaced by a handful of noisy ghosts. We use anything to justify anything, without apology or explanation. The causes are mainly inaccessible, kept hidden and beyond reach. There is only the effect to contend with, with no route back. The forest is haunted by orbital sentries, the waning paths all lead back into unlit mystery.
I walked out early this morning, searching the dark sky. It is invisible, I thought, chasing the sun slowly in its crescent phase, losing sky each day as it goes - it will rise in morning light and cross the sky today unseen.
Tonight, I thought again - just after the sun sets, and then for the next few weeks.
.
