The sky is a search for meaningful convergences that fail to meet our expectations.
It is a raft of momentous consequences that exceeds our need for explanations.
It is not made of concrete realities.
It is a corpus of ideal scenarios that undergo their selection process through the chaotic sub-streams of their influence in the interaction of the sky’s component parts.
Weather systems are not like trains that follow scheduled routes, appearing at points of predetermined arrival in the pursuit of occupying routine functions.
Weather conditions are random consequences of their power to act within routine measures.
They manufacture a diversity of possible outcomes from the grindstone of cause and effect.
The weather systems are proof of the efficacy of the theoretical disposition of mood-building effects.
A multitude of causes converge in the great mass of possible outcomes – lost potentials finding themselves in the crux of the moment and vying with others.
But not all of them will materialise as a defining factor of the prevailing weatherscape.
A totalitarian nightmare of crushing shades may evolve to consume the reactions of the spirit, or a wintery cascade of virile enchantments – the flush reds of the splayed eruptions of cumulus massifs.
Then, the reciprocal glow of Nature inside us formulates a projection of similar tendency that settles into a state of mind that, in itself, becomes a qualititive condition of existence – one that makes us feel.
These are moments of ecstatic prominence that, even after they have departed from us, never leave us from the core of our stored memories.
A veil of warmth under false pretences.
The air is as vapid as a spent force.
The remembrance of alternatives falls into the mouth of bland obligations.
The hours pass like a Chinese water torture.
The enormity of comformance to the system is an utter failure of the imagination to devise new routes.
The journey on the path of stagnation is oblivious to the challenges of extreme survival.
An extinction event on the horizon moves towards us with the slumbering purpose of its definite arrival.
The disconnecting opposites have been forced to conjoin.
Emotions are subjagated to unusual behaviours of reticence and stagnation.
There is an element of freedom in the release of emotions in their pure condition of direct enunciation, however undesired in the contentions of extreme sorrow.
The freedom to feel is a corresponding attribute of the celestial scientific deity of multiple forms of chemical assemblage and the sunlight-management conditions of application and consistency.
Taking articles of justification for a fecund existence.
Only emotions of pure intent can ratify the crepuscular expansions of the sky as something more than mere colour.
The cold spreads like a virus throug the body parts of weather portents.
We shift between the weakening viewpoints of terra firma, seeing nothing beyond the miopic parameters of working life.
Whose idea was this?
To settle into codifications of human life and be distanced from our inclinations to wander.
When habits become a restricive circle of obligations, it is time to favour our actions of choice.
It is time to take matters into your own hands and, with a crushing determination, to mould them into your private destiny.
They foretold of merriments that couldn’t last.
Wane without the provocation of further tensions.
Morbid blocks of better tomorrows.
Languishing in the fragile stillness of unstable rains.
The ruin of all of us.
The space of the day is tightly bound by an animal skin of pallid stratus.
It is a drum of startled silence with a hollow centre that needs beaten with sticks of thunderous awe.
It needs an echo and a throbbing circuit of dreaming that goes beyond the circumferance of its limpid shadow.
It needs to fill the void of its pale refractions with a cloud burst of irridescent booming.
It needs to develop a new dimension.
It needs to set an example for the world hereafter.
The embankments of Glen Shee were caused by glacial intrusions that left an eternal faery kist of riches for all to see.
Today it is filled with an enriching overkill of Winter sunlight.
It assesses the glistening charms of its melt waters.
It wants to cradle us in its arms of prehistory.
To leave the Glen is to abandon the memories of its enormous sequences of ancient purpose.
Cenruries are diminished in the primordial grooves of its timescale.
To return to the city, its poverty-stricken and prosperous remnants, is like the shedding of a skin that has allowed us to absorb the many wonders of the world we have encountered.
Now their is a cosmetic indifference – an effacement of the valuable confrontations we’ve experienced with the prospects of realising the favourable status of knowing nothing.
Cities make us feel that we assume control over things that we can’t even scratch the surface of.
Edinburgh is a delusion of grandeur embedded in the brickwork of its tenebrous sandstone and the antiquated castle walls.