The glacial exhibitions of speechless entropy are vivid reminders of the stoicism of the natural world.
It has no voice to express its self-loss.
It has no means of verbally decrying the forced implications of external causes.
It cannot construct a pattern of refusal against the outward motions of dogma by its enunciations of inward strife.
There are times when pushing back against the mainstream is a necessary futility.
It cannot prevent the coercive movement of the repugnant current from sweeping you up.
But it marks you out as driftwood.
It tells the world that you do not play a part in the meanderings of the polluted river.
Patterns emerging from the looms of the sky.
The atmosphere is a multi-dimensional transparency of moving pictures.
Perspective is a quandary of thwarted magnitude.
We are grateful for the small dilemmas of every stitch of the embroidered whole.
The steel-coloured resistance of the alto-cumulus begins to warp.
We sit on the cusp of something greater than the insubstantial density of its thriving layers.
Still, the fruitless glow of the frosted summits beckons to the stars with an ebullition of scintillae.
All the needles of the heart point northwards.
Winter spreads its cloak of whiteness over the unseen peaks of the Highland fault line.
The clouds arrive in whispers of mare’s tails and the remnants of northern arcana.
Snowfall, clean as the undeniable truth, absorbs the distance.
“Be there,” the snowfall says, “or let us enter the gates of your city and smother your rooftops in freezing preparations of of cosmic amplitude.”
The air is full of the trumpets of snowfall in abundance over the Grampian hills.
And, still, there is a commitment to beauty in the dullness of winter’s deepest retributions.
The receding elevations of the one-dimensional cumulus totalities must leave no traces of their corpuses when the demands of exemplary feelings are strong.
We forget the qualities of the air as a golden approximation of mythical aspirations.
We forget the dreams of places where the ancestral retainments are a collective tincture of bliss conceived as space between geographical standpoints.
And then we are reminded of them by the forge of new worlds in the dream of twilight.
These gloomy silences in motions of ruin.
They take to the skies in exhibitions of dolorous composition.
No one notices.
When skies are this dull, it’s like betrayal.
We belong to a world that doesn’t want us.
Behold the solemn enemy of existence that never was your friend.