Fyvie │ 23 December 2017

The earth’s atmosphere has a constricted space in which to operate.

It is an entity of forceful intentions confined to a virtual stony enclosure of empty vacuums.

The grey matter of its cloud base is an expression of ascendancy through the opposing motions of unequal tendency that enliven its factual compactions of to a virtual limit of false impressions of its infinite distance.

There is nothing more finite than the Earth’s atmosphere.

There is nothing so restricted as its dimensions squeezed through ever-funded energy reserves .

Within the containment of its forces, a blend is reached – an obstreperous exaggeration of tonal resentments, a catacomb of transitions that rip through Time.

The result is to cause a cavalcade of focuses of attention, an anomaly of multiple centres of activity that cannot be presented as an absolute centre.

The weather systems are a constant assertion of the cancellation of the centres of everything.

There never was a centre that cannot hold.

The cancellation of multiplicity as a means of acquiring the uniqueness of a core acts as a metaphor for the wastefulness of too much thinking.

When heading north, the obliteration of the centre is like the surface of a balloon where the centre is impossible to achieve in relation to a random assertion of fantastically false belief systems.

It is a journey into the headwinds – into the brunt of the storms that swing towards us  in the mid-flow of careening assaults.

Episodes of brightness appear as daggers of eventuality in the breasts of tortured heroes.

In the tragedian ebb and flow of the half-lights and the darkness, they will not form a cohesive pitch of anything beyond the supernal glow of mysteries contained without release.

We see ghosts in the bottle glass windows of the castles.

We see spectres of propositions in the depths of copses where the shadows lie.