Saturday, June 19, 2010


Twilight. Twilight people
There are people who love it, those who come into their own at this time of day.
Not me.

I look outside my French Windows when the sun is still bright. Fading but still light.
I can see the trees, and between the branches and leaves, I see patches of light. That light is very precious to me. Spent, leaking, leaching into another time but its still day.
Daylight means that light is for real, its worked hard and ensured that the world has spun in a particular way .

Now that this view is trapped in a picture window on my left, I keep glancing at it.
 Keep looking at it , as if once I do , the fading, dampening of colour , much like sweat darkly staining a blue shirt , will arrest. And then slowly , mauvely the colour fades out .
I keep watching – the patches become smaller , and the electric light is now reflected on the glass of the windows, and superimposed on darkening , increasingly menacing sky. There is no thunder and lightning , but there might well be, to portend the end of a day, a death of a promise.

The fear of an inexorable cranking forward grows within me  - of something, time , space, whatever.
And an inner small voice is shouting under its breath, as loud as it can, to stop , stop, but no one can hear . It ought not to hear .
It’s the oldest march, and it goes on , and it goes on.
Walks over small ants, elephants, giants and choked screams like this.

Outside the light darkens, and now the incandescent light in the room has won. As the principal source of light, artificial is victorious over natural. Like today, the victory of  modern times.

Its never simple .
Like with all serious, inward moments , the grunge of the everyday intrudes. Outside, there are two blue and white bath towels drying on the balcony railings. An element of the ludicrous   creeping in  justwhen the soul is testing a silent scream, a touch of the circus in the middle of a eulogy.

Life always does that .
Just when its scratching inky stains on paper to communicate portentous tidings to the world, letters start to form, meaning takes shape , someone squishes tomato sauce on a white , white paper.
In the shape of a clown’s smile, twisted.

There are Twilight people. There are people who feel the stretching of nerves, the spreading of arms and adrenaline when the light darkens inexorably outside. I don’t know what it is that does not allow me to celebrate the end of a day.
Is it about hope that falls away , and hope that decays?

And then darkness fell.

Those words always scared me.
Do I therefore love the sunrise and the promise it brings? Do I love the spreading fingers of light?
Yes. Somewhat.

Bu that goods train drones in the distance , chug chug, groan groan, unceasing , inexorable.
It stops for no one, be it light or dark .

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