It’s difficult, as the summer passes, again, and we notice the evenings growing shorter – sitting reading by the window at 8.30, and struggling to see the text – it’s difficult because with each passing summer, with each month that slides us toward another Christmas lit by the glow of forgotten storms, we wonder whether anything, or how much, has changed at all.
Years follow years. Still we stumble within an endless present tense, largely oblivious to age and time – only rarely-seen marks on our bodies remind us of closing opportunities, of rooms narrowing around us, streets becoming unnavigable as they blur in twilight.
Memories. We read about them, by the window – and, strangely, recall once having them too. What they were – their substance or texture – is as dark and obscure as the landscapes we now inhabit, but there surely can be little doubt that at one time, long ago, they flickered across consciousness and brightened thought.
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Night is a kind of blessing, usually gracing us with perplexing images fraught with intrigue, explorations of odd territories, or encounters with strangers who embrace us. Waking to piss and drink from the tap, we move in desaturated spaces, our outline blurring into the objects and rooms as we hold on to the scraps of dreams which trail behind us. At these moments we seem to live between worlds. If an intruder were to be watching us, we imagine that we would appear as wraiths, translucent in the greyed out and unresponsive interiors.
With thanks to the author who wishes to remain anonymous