Sunday finds me in my usual pew awaiting the procession to the altar for the start of mass. As I notice a conversation taking place two or three rows in front of me, just like a scene from Schindler’s List. Which has me recall what they once told me about art imitating life and vice versa. As well as recalling that they also told me about the Devil living in the details, something I found out, and know exactly what they mean by it. For there have been times it has seemed as though I have found myself walking through the wastelands with the ghost(s), in the machine.

Having been roaming, and seeing nothing as I pass by but those painted faces, with all of the colours either being underground, or undercover. Feeling at times as if I am walking on broken glass, alone in time, like a bloody mess. Seeing the light, and feeling the heat, never used to think that I would ever grow old. Sometimes wondering if I am looking for either the fountain of youth, or those years I have lost, or just left behind me, as I stand here in this twilight theatre.

Where to begin they all asked? I guess that it would be best just to begin with the end, for beginnings are very delicate things. Remembering I asking when the rain would come down? And hearing that night train out on the dark horizon every night as I heard it’s song passing by. Heading down to the river, to lay there by the water, watching the sky turn from blue to grey, as it faded away into the turning of twilight. Looking up at Orion’s Belt, as I remembered simpler times, and the good people I have known.

Seeing my breath misting as it meets the air, as I think of the times when I never had a penny, or a sou, knowing some were the best, and amazing times I had. Taking the test, and just doing my best with what life throws at me, even if things don’t work out. Because to make God laugh is to make plans. Sometimes as far as my eyes can see there are shadows waiting to fall, and life is the hardest game to play that we all end up losing anyway.

Laying here feeling chills on my skin, knowing it’s all about understanding, just like one word or look say nothing but at the same time they say everything just like an old map. As I lay here in the darkness with just a beating heart to guide my way through it. Memories either flicker like old silent movies on the screen, or lay there like black and white photographs that only capture the texture, and not the sound, colours, or smell associated with them as they fade into sepia toned prints.

Still feeling the passion of life, though my heart may have been touched by fire, making me who I am. Though at times drenched in pain, with memory not allowing us to forget what we lost and to not let us look back clearly to see where we were. But most of us tend to look back anyway.

Now rising up in the cold light of the dawn, hearing the wind across the plain, telling me this is the place where I once belonged. And I am allowed to visit but I can never stay, for it is no longer mine. For time moves on, waiting for no-one, and it can be said that sadness can be a blessing at times.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, and the dust from my hands, as I gaze to the horizon in the turning of twilight.

Able to see through the early morning fog or mist rising, those things which were concealed from me, it seems as though I have been running on faith. Knowing that one day the curtain call will take place before the shadows fall like leaves in the wind.

Copyright Timberwolf International LTD: April 2014-4