They’d call it suicide, but I’d re-inacted my death over and over again in my dreams. Grainy images of places to dark to describe, faces of people I’ve never met using names of the people I know only to well. this is not a rehearsal. This is not the time to stop. The dream continues on, and I find myself falling through a blackened sky, clouds made of oil covering a sun long burnt out. Looking down, the landscape draws further away, a shifting perspective that seems so comprehensible, despite it’s absurdity. I’m neither falling or rising, stranded somewhere, sometime for some reason, as I glance towards an antique watch. My heart pauses, seemingly along with the passage of time that stopped dead the moment I attempted to check it. Click. Click. The hands began moving again, but rather than advancing they move counter-clockwise, distorting the surroundings along with my thoughts. Could this be the edge of time? Perhaps I’ll never know, as the inertia of gravity takes hold and calls me home again.
(July 2004)
UK Based Artist, Writer & Photographer.
www.riverhunt.org
