Nimbostratus: compacting with incompletion – uncertain of its pedigree.
I stare into a perfect void as if looking into my own mind.
It is a void of finite resources that captures a geography and presents itself as repetitions of words that I am conscious of using with relentless application:
Aftermaths, extremities, manifestations and glooms, torments, enterprises and conterminous species that reappear in my texts like recurring dreams that never reveal their true identity of purpose, that cirumambulate true meanings without ever finding them.
Loch Muick spreads out before me like the tomb of my own wishes – a callous body of water as grey as an alien abduction.
Loch Muick is a reflection of the confrontation within ourselves.
It is abrudbtly cold and capable of consuming you in its freezing depths.
Such bodies of water are full of beasts, such as we are.
I realise that, staring into the absolutions of Loch Muick, I am staring into myself.
Loch Muick reveals nothing of itself: it is an impenetrable surface of skittery undulations.
There is no visible depth – only a mirrored absorption of external shades.
From our position of insufficient perspective, we look up at the combinations of nimbostratus and nimbocumulus that cannot depend upon their mix.
We cannot penetrate the limits of obfuscation to see the solid projection of shattered summits within them – monumental elevations of totemic structure.
We spend so much of our time without seeing anything in a world of obscure fractions.
Some of our most profound and exciting thoughts are guesses thrown into the obscurity of never arriving at verifiable definitions.
A tale of nefarious occupations, of characteristic themes of descent.
The clouds are vampires – nimbus essences that collapse with a palour of lusts over the necks of their victims.
They suck the colour out of the granite bodies – make them seem crooked and ancient and vitally hard.
Broad Cairn and Lochnagar are the collosi of assumptions that are uncertain of being there.
The cloud cover utters denials of their crude stature, questions their existence as physical matter, and determines them as ideas akin to weird longings.
Winter showers of soft hail manufacture a noise of chittering over the stark heather.
Through watery separations, there are sad passages of languid expressions being muttered over the waters of Loch Muick.