Deposits of ectoplasm – the psychic residue of the mineral and vegetable properties of the landscape.
This is how clouds develop characteristics that are particular to the terrain over which they expand a secondary dominion of geographical haunting.
It is the fate of intelligence that it must suffer.
These outspreading cumulus slabs of gracious meandering move with the pace of rigid emotions that form over time.
They are not the rash reactions of our tempers to instances of sharp provocation.
The internet has revealed the psychosis at the heart of human nature.
The pathological self-regard of egoism and narcissism are as endemic to the human condition as blood and bones.
The spirit of cooperation is secondary to the delusion of self-interest as the most valid mechanism for survival.
Self-interest ploughs a vanishing furrow of irrelevance through the plains of ephemeral highs and lows.
The extent to which people take themselves seriously is a pitiful distraction from what is actually serious.
The angst is tumultuous – more so for its triviality – as if anyone cares for the selfish dilemmas of petulant minions.
Their existential catastrophes impact on the planet surface with the precious lightness of crocodile tears.
This day is like a blank wall instead of a diurnal motion.
It remains within the vortex of memory as a failure to predict what has already happened.
Sometimes the winter skies are like a vacuum into which our attentions are drawn like water down the plughole of history.
Sometimes a theme is apparent in the repetition of events.
Such a theme becomes a representative model of a contained period of adjustment that moves with a glacial impotency through the assertion of its purpose.
Such a theme will remain what it is without wanting to.
Such a theme will insinuate itself into the meteorological suspension of diversity in the arrangement of clouds.
It will become the element of an illusion of permanence.
That word again – illusion.
A suggestion of impractical dishonesty in the assessment of viable experience – an illusion.
An impression, however, is an honest interpretation of a viable experience. It doesn’t imply a desertion of the truth but is an admission of vulnerability to the inaccuracy of the assessment – but, nevertheless, a true reflection of how the experience is perceived.
If the universe was a fish of creation, it is gutted.
Its ligatures of light reserves have been extricated from its colossal depths.
The cold air seems to magnify the intensity of light.
It is half-formed and reluctant to achieve the proportions of a unique explosion.
We depend on the associations of colour to create a perfect blend for whatever it happens to be at the moment of its conception.
The light, the colour, continues to form while we drift with the illusions of our position as a pivotal force around which the operations of the cosmos move like a dreaming state of mechanisms that never reach their true condition.
Moving through a prolonged explosion.
Suspended in the freezing air till our bodily parts are no longer recognised as extensions of our self-awareness.
The quality of light is distilled to a winter brilliance that is characterised by its self-dimming influence of radiant splendour.
We are held in the perfection of its liquid gold.
Recovering warmth is a forgotten pleasantry that reminds us of our childhoods.
It measures the distance between the modernity of human animals and the environment that contains them beyond their limits of perception.
The air is full of the deep sadness of our departure from its enveloping strangeness.
Where, once, it was normal.
Pale charms of stratus.
Reservations of light in the fallen ether.
A sky the colour of ghosts, brought to life by its appearances in real vision.
The tones of silence are woven into the embroidery of the optimum bland cloud cover.
If the world was to come to an end on a day like this, no one would notice.
We would slip seamlessly into the collapsing void of outer space, like some loss of self, no longer visible to our understanding.
No longer apparent to our muted sense of being here.
The weather has accomplished a sensation of calm that is draped like a disguise over the brutal features of its acrimony.
It remains contained by a hypnotic chill factor.
The bladed wind slices through the appearance of reality with a shocking reminder of our vulnerability to exposure.