A Moment In Time.
He was up early that Sunday morning, having retired in an auspiciously healthy time frame the night before. Outside it was still unhallowed darkness, but mild. Rain had fallen during the interlude, but had now ceased and the promise as far as he could discern, seemed to be one of clear skies with a chance of winter sunshine.
Routine is very much the mental comfort of those recently retired. Dress quickly, open bedroom window, throw out a handful of bird seed, proceed downstairs to the kitchen, hot water on for coffee, central heating activated, vitamin pills, clean glasses and catch up on early morning news.
You cannot help but smile; albeit inwardly, at these recognizable signs, that so symbolically encapsulate the final stretch of life. You fight against it in a half hearted manner, but somehow, "The Last Hurrah, " gets shunted into a byway, to be returned to at a later date.
Eventually winter light creeps in like a furtive thief to the garden outside; exposing bare branches, sodden leaves and itinerant small birds. And then, like a risen Christ, a succession of dawn's singular prismatic tints, flush after flush, diffuse the horizon, evoking a new hope towards fulfilment.
Being Sunday, and being alone, this is a chance to catch up on the reading. And with pressure absent in any form, to dip into works half started, or demanding a revisit. For the desire to read is actually but half a magician; in so far as she evokes spectres which she cannot quell. Each page in its turn can renew the scent or descry richer quarry afar and untouched.
It is all too simplistic to get entrapped in a stereotypical status, whereby one can become half-weary of a world, which is very likely half-weary of you. But so be it, if in the dying smoke and warm ashes of outburst sensualities you chose to live and digest.
He had, in his extensive travel known the reality of both; men grown rich and grey in corporate treachery, plus the crust of the beggar moistened in tears. There had been good endeavours with good men. But one tries to block out the dark places, where in dark heads and hungry hearts, men had worked in formless immeasurabllity. All betoiled, besoiled and encrusted into dim defacement: into whom nevertheless the breath of the Almighty has breathed a living soul.
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