Reflection.

Such a gloomy, lifeless sort of day today. A heavy grey sky lumbered reluctantly north eastward, like coal smoke on a dead December evening. Rain was ever close by and the breeze was neither sharp nor soft, but merely dull and indifferent.

It was a day for reflection. On desire and decay, on demons and destiny, on ragged revelations, on thoughtless thrills and the unquenchable nature of thirst. On purity and priestesses and the poverty of idealism. On loss and languishing and lassitude. On real dawns and false dawns and dawns that hang too long between night and day. On revival and remission, on good and bad, on pure and adulterated, on positive and negative, on subjective and objective. On goddesses and ghosts, on old and young. Especially on old and young.

And I’ll bet there’s somebody out there, somebody in a far off mental place, who is mightily embarrassed by things she said. How can I know, since reflection can only really look inward?

OK, that’s that off my chest. Time to go and talk to the bats.