Five hundred five am faces line the neatly folded queue
Each line of fifty yards sporting as many a mien
All donning the ‘I got up too early’ look
Yawns and vacant stares aplenty in each row
Our five added to the number, passports clasped
We’ve joined, we wait, we move
But five yards in as many minutes
Still dazed by Kilter’s knock
Consciousness held only by eagerness
Our suitcases’ weights taken
Two of their five conveyed away by belt to aluminium hold
Stripped ourselves of metal, footwear and dignity
We’re scanned, searched, processed and pronounced safe to…
At the gate; no wait, all checks at check in have eaten time.
Five in seats at six fifty five – we taxi to the runway and to Rome we…
My unshakeable no-no-theistic faith in atheism took another knock today (knock 5 – 13th Nov 2014) as Lady Semi-Serendipity read a page in Bone Clocks to me: it has a character who takes a flight…5am up… 6:55am fly. Erk@! You see – too many very high odds coincidences (I’ve witnessed a fair few these last months) and I’ll have to cede the small gods are really running the show. If their magesterium in any way overlaps this one. Then – I’m a believer.
The coiled tungsten of old incandescence is rife with the most agitated of electrons tonight! I am aglow.
A sound is fed in, an image is envisioned, an idea enters left field and is considered, then again more diligently so. A concept that excites. To the degree it’s put before more testing conjecture: It’s bent then squashed then stretched; made hot, very hot, hotter still and likewise as many shades of cold. It’s inverted, re-coloured, bleached, dyed, laid bare to the people of the past and proffered up to those not yet here. Through all these labours it’s not, not for a moment, found wanting.
Goosebumps; a time-lapse eruption, the babies of button mushrooms fill, in unison, the shell-pink farm of the skin. An excited tingle prickles the neck, the back, the forearms and is observed by newly plugged-in child-eyes . The enormity can’t humanly be realised; a notion to wrap an enraptured world and post it 1st Class to Utopia.
But what’s this? From each goose bump sprouts a black, a grey or a white hair. As one yet as a wave they grow, to form a fierce mane that extends to consume body and limb. Every fibre held rigid by stressed dermis, every glossy filament a sentry at attention. A worry-wolf* of the greatest self-doubt materialises, turns inwards and tears the idea and itself to shreds.
* term handed to me many a full moon ago