A little inspiration does help with the writing and the other night stirred things up nicely. As it happened:

I’m looking at a silver slither of a moon against the dying light; darkest orange, green and blue. It’s hanging real low over rooftops with the Evening Star its nearby beacon on this particular night. They soon leave quietly together, the last spectators of the twilight. And this just by chance—if God isn’t there to notice the beauty we miss, what becomes of it? Someone’s tears, perhaps…

Then the following morning:

[Bruce Springsteen’s ‘I’m On Fire’ begins to play low in the background on a live BBC radio broadcast as the presenter continues to reel things off…] ‘And here’s a reminder for you—it’s a boring reminder but an important one—as of September 1st you need a TV Licence to download or watch BBC programmes on iPlayer, so if you’re still watching without one then you can be sure they’ll be out to get you.’ [‘…Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul…’]

I guess some would call this melancholy but these little moments remind me I’m still me. And so I ask, who are we if not those kids who knew all about magic? Those of us who still remember a thing or two should count themselves lucky; we still have a reason to believe.

I’ve always thrived on that inner life and it still seems so much more important to me than the games people play. That isn’t intended to demean anyone. You know, there was a time when I had every choice in the matter so it’s not like I’ve always had to play the outsider—I just feel that life is far too big in every way to make any more small talk than we need to.

Nor do I mean to sound self-absorbed. The way I see it, there are those who prefer to stay above water for fear of drowning (or deflating their ego), while a minority look to plunge into the depths knowing full well that no one is likely to notice, let alone approve. That is to say, everything becomes more inwardly simply because most people don’t want to know. And again, I do have plenty of empathy in most cases. Breaking away is a tough ask.

I thought about leaving this post open in case more inspiration should come to help it along, but after returning home after a long walk, again at last light, suddenly I get the feeling I won’t have much more to say on this topic for the time being.

One thing I’ll admit is that as time ticks by in a far away place, you do wonder whether you missed the boat somewhere along the way. As I emptied my pockets after a food shop this evening, the crumpled supermarket receipt on the table before me prompted the question. Still, as valid as that may be, in the end it’s just a state of mind as transient as any other. Until that inspiration comes around again, I’ll take comfort in the fact that the good things that endure the longest tend to be the most valuable—the most real.

Photo by Paul Esch-Laurent / retouched