Cloudy Morning

The cold air invades. I walk alone in this winter morning, on the scattered streets of Canberra, surprised at the constant presence of other passers; or perhaps, it is because that I have secluded myself for too long from them.

The morning is strange. Yet the morning seems so familiar, like a mother at home, welcoming the returning of her child. I have long not seen daylight. I have dwelled in darkness for, perhaps, not so long; or perhaps, for far too long…

The passers by, the morning café, the steaming breakfast seeping through those wooden framed entrances, I in consciousness drift near the scent, the warm scent of culture. The passers by, reminds me of the indifference, of not merely actors, but of the stage. What is left of our freedom? We never had freedom perhaps, like in dreams. Our dream is not our will, but an ungraspable given, it is the story that is played to us in our sleep, in our powerlessness.

O! How must I live? Helpless shall we become? The passers, the society; like a programmed system. Perhaps we are programed. How the people act in synchrony, how the people react to the unexpected, how the unwelcomed guest is like a plague. I am the unexpected, the unwelcomed guest, I am the stranger, the event, I am the virus in the system, I am ill, very ill indeed.

The clouds are low, extremely low. They almost stand floating just above the buildings. They suddenly alert me to a scene. The clouds, form surreal, also real, figures, sculptures, of ancient war fields, of heroes, of battles raging in flames. An ox, Odysseus… The clouds drift at a racing pace above my head, I watch the grey army – the haunting ghosts, coming again.

How are you? I am very unwell…

Published in: on 18/07/2013 at 10:20 AM  Leave a Comment  

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