Mood Sketches
It all begins with the dusk . . . long semi-detached shadows roaming silently quite apart from yourself and vanishing into the broken mirrors. They start haunting you, you venture a step forward, groping for the invisible hand – the gap between you and its realm strangely magnetic – and wait. Then, out of broken glass, out of audible silence rolling ocean-like up to your feet echoes emerge and grow into whispering voices, distant at first, then more and more recognisable, calling out your name, calling you, calling . . . and you make one more step into the dark background behind the mirror frame, into its vast abyss and plunge into its luring waters dragging you far away from this shore to the world of oblivion, lucid, balmy and soft like the newly born woolly clouds.
A story without end . . . The path looks familiar . . . Autumn. Drizzle and mists . . . Not making you numb, but lifting you from the ruins. The clarity of the open book showing the page you have long searched for . . . Fading colours ... Meaningful, recognisable, vivid . . . Dream-born boat floating off to the other shore, vanishing beyond the horizon . . . Rhapsody of the past stroking my shoulder . . . Gentle tentative brush . . . Flashlight, sharp, like a baby boy kicking hard in the dark of the womb, craving to be reborn . . . Endless story . . . Roaming serpentine of the past . . . Deep dark wells, crystal waters.