The delirium of heading north.
The needle strains to meet its magnetic counterpart.
Clouds of distinction mark their territories with strict evaporations of barging whiteness.
They weave patterns of absence in the domain of failing light.
They deteriorate like the edicts of ancient kings.
They cannot uphold the laws that made them.
Sobering rural pockets of the Chilterns.
Gateways of possibility.
Nearby pastoral retreats – insights into the enormous potentials of the world beyond the city walls.
A pair of red kites act us standard bearers for the geographical spontaneity of the outlying landscapes.
They send us messages in spirals of elegance mixed with the passions of their ferocious expert motions of killing.
There are no delusions of purpose in Nature, such as we see it in the curdled masses of the human drudge bowl.
An iconic southern English wash of light grey solutions – of rains that fail to fall beyond a minimum of strife.
It poses an air of rapid stillness that churns around the hubbub of metropolitan activity.
The walls of buildings create a perpetual screen of human interests that divide us from Nature.
Commerce appears in stark proximity while the clouds recede without attention like the dreams of animals we cannot know.
Nobody longs for their withdrawal from the pit of material abstractions.
The indulgence of superfluous feelings of being someone in a place that truly matters intoxicates the bloodstreams of their vanity.
Addictions to the gods of selves maximises their egos to perceived extremes of greatness, while the true vastness shrinks beyond the point of their perceptions, fading out of sight like the ghost of tomorrows that never come.
Marauding spectres – animation of despairing altitude that collapses like an unproven theory whose principles hold up.
Faith dictates our belief in the gloom.
There are no fluctuations of influence through the steady depletion of our light reserves – only the steady drone of accumulating stratocumulus – gradually compressing the day into an omnipotent slab of premature darkness.
A golden horizon persists in the west with the starkness of a meat cleaver.
A blade as hard-edged as the greatness of its impossible transparency.
The blade divides into shafts of glorious metaphysical sharpness.
It cleaves our hearts.
It organises the release of our senses through the gaps of its incisions.
We allow ourselves to bleed through them and are reformed on the other side, as things of another world.
We fit into the segments of October with an attitude of corpses.
We transmigrate through phases of wakefulness, through the partial numinous lucidity of drifting outside of ourselves, with incorporeal stature.
The stratus falls in colours withdrawn from the domain of the spirit world.
It seeps into our bones like the beginnings of an impulse that soon becomes a transformation.
The edges of the seasons blur into an unidentifiable nondescript brightness that disregards the rationale of the depth of day.
The world is like a stone that floats on water.
It is unable to sink through the defining conditions that provide it with the affirmation of its true substance.
We undergo the private evacuations of our emotions by projecting them onto the cinematic refuge of the sky.
It allows us to visualise our traumas in the adaptable expressions of its designs.
The sky devours them with its terrible indifference to our suffering, which is exactly what we need of them – to perish and be destroyed by some greater force of opposition.
The sky does not crave some process of absolution or some ratification of spiritual belief.
It reciprocates with a force of anonymity that compels us to form our own ideas with a tentative acceptance of its precarious truth-value.
This is why the sky is not a basis for religious worship but a set of challenges that force us to think, to draw our conclusions with a ruthless adherence to the rawness of their invalidity.
The taproots of autumn have been turned to full gush.
The chill in the air is a cavalcade that transports the liquid entities of sunlight beyond the transmutation of warmth.
The oppositions of preordained air temperatures and the sun’s radiation conspire to tackle the human absorption of them with new inquisitions that penetrate the layers of awareness with their pointblank scrutiny.
But autumn is not a religion.
It is a cult of mesmerising decay that performs its preparations the coming death in winter.