All shall be well, friend.
It was a fascinating dance between night and day; a gorgeous undulation of haze and glow that made you forget quite suddenly and succinctly the things that had occupied your mind only moments ago.
And at last over the hill peered forth the smiling sun, to warm the bedrock of blank expression with its yellow touch. Under a glaze of Winter pearls the sleeping Spring buds stir, and the Earth prepares to welcome new life, fresh hope and young joy, to play, free and unhindered among the florets drenched in gold.
That glorious golden bulb again rose to finish the thaw of yesterdays ail and satisfied, I closed the shades to find a progress my own. It need not be enticed from the outside if I am present within. I will be light through, not merely in its absence elsewhere. These endeavours must daily begin anew, for strength is not strength that is not used and so require the strain. We make no ground by our mere intention, but must saturate the Earth with that you would receive of it. And still I rise, as ever. That we are all here today gathered is much now.
My glowing daybreak friend, from the nearest reachable greeting point of this shifting globe I lunge thee toward with unbearable stillness, and will, with all the wishing might of a child at Christmas Eve, for a quicker revolution and that cardinal glimpse of thy gladdening light jovial patience rewards.
Hurling toward thee, o herald of the Auroral sky, I bring news of many revolutions. So much has changed again, I wonder if you’ll perceive me anymore, as much to myself am I unfamiliar anew. But o, the things you must have seen of the world while I slept. How fares my neighbours on the other side? What colours of expression will you carry for the impression? Our reconciliations bear an amnesic appeal, that every colloquy is the first and no other and we are at once the oldest of friends and loving strangers, by attached we know not what.
O daybreak, that I am ever with fresh gladness seen, and not honoured to evenings conviction, that today I do not mean.
The sun too quickly reaches height, say you? But it has its own duties to fulfil, and you yours. And have you not time to make reparation for your wrong doing, which includes doing nothing, in this instance?
The morning begins in a blaze of luminous peach and hot pink swirls like a pooling rain of lava to fall; the light at the edge of the world and there’s not a violence in the air. No fire in the sky or gaping hell unloosed, it’s far too still, too beautiful for it, but a blinding promise of a paradise already here perhaps. And sitting over this vivid glow of reaching holiness, is a guide of perfect puffs of white cloud, arranged in a homeward going it seems, dispersed like stepping-stones of cotton for the angels trailing to a golden trapdoor haven in the sky. It peels open slowly, like a wise and ancient eye knowing all and well as it slips from the darkness milk of a century-long slumber, upon what futile routine will its look rest. This human fumbling, short-lived evaporating everlast of unbearable wonder. Peering over the sizzling lip with a brilliance unheard, our saviour orb of blood orange is roaring to ascendency, where it will sit with explosive resplendence, the very centre and light of things all and not a sound. O relief, ye smiling humble high sun, beacon to the weary confused, nothing is dispossessed of your gentle touch across the Earth, but greeting cheerfully all tears and dew and drying the surface of lack and lament like a mother’s hand. How daily new and utterly heart bewildering. There is nothing, sets right or overcomes me quite. Another chance for a fool.
And less nowadays, in these fine moments that might have been shared, comes strolling thee into my reveries mead… then does. As though within the very nature of the occasions sudden vacancy of memory embedded is a deeper and more adamant remembrance in wait. Instants, bright and fulfilling, riotous with life urge me to enquire what shade and resignation prefers. The contrast emphasis. And we cannot just go along easily, but puncture directly to the heart or hold our own from a safe screaming distance. Telling it is when I cannot sever so quickly the cords of an attachment anymore. Good soul, who found a reason to stay in the first, and last place; none so can ever leave without a trace.
‘Anyway, don’t get too caught up in it now like always, aching over the intricacies of lapping little shore breaks on the beach, or the Coasts Winter mantle of mist and whitewash and what distant winds have hither inspired them. Like a flag in the Summer sea breeze flailing tirelessly resisting the flagpole oppression it needs. Welling tears at melodies that demonstrate your gentler parts, and returning always to the same hard stoic stare of modesty and recovered order, the state from which you will again stray and which you hold most dear.’ Practice, practice, practice. It’s a rehearsal anyway, for the big last dance at midnight and it’s been the eleventh hour for almost a lifetime now. ‘Your mind you can change, and do and will, but the sky not. It is not for you but simply is. The birds, happy enough do they sail on, and you should go with their philosophy awhile, for clear days or not know there are many days, many colours and all colours soon fade.’