I spent the late afternoon today staring contemplatively out a window as I witnessed the last vestiges of the winter sunlight disappear behind the tall pines that surround my cottage. Accompanying the arrival of the now inky black impenetrable darkness was a silence loud enough to taste in the of the back of the gullet, like that cloying clammy smoke prone to escaping a damp, poorly drafted fire.
‘Don’t let the sun go down on me’ is the cry of a young man, still able to cling to the aspirations of an existence malleable, changeable, directional, beyond tomorrow’s sunrise. Great plans are wonderous to envisage, anticipate, magnificent in their every recounting, empowering in their captured glory, yet in truth but momentary glistening peaks standing proud against a panorama of lesser aspirations, inclusive of an inordinate percentile of stinging pitfalls.
I find this winter darkness and silence strangely comforting, masking all that I wish to forgo, allowing the unopposed transcendence of more worthy memories.