On Mist and Mortality.

The following lines from The Lady of Shallot might not be quite strictly accurate, but they’re certainly very close and will suffice to evoke the sense of this evening’s twilight:

In a stormy east wind straining

The pale yellow woods were waning

The broad stream in his banks complaining

Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot

I stood, as ever, at the top of the garden as the gloaming gathered, and perused the view – down the garden, across the fields, further to the river valley, then up to the higher land beyond, all studded with summer crops, verdant hedgerows, stolid copses, and rocky outcrops topping the whole on the far hills. There was, indeed, a chill east wind, and the sky was, indeed, raining. The succession of grey half tones grew ever denser as the view progressed and gave the lie to the clear, bright greens of early summer. And, as always, the grand Romantic mythology of King Arthur and his world took centre stage in my mind. When that point was reached, the mist ceased to be merely misty and became both mythical and mystical.

For that was how the end came to Camelot in the received versions of Mallory and Tennyson. The grey clouds gathered, the days grew gloomy, the chill wind blew, and the spitting rain left the benighted land dripping mournfully. It was a fitting end to the rise and fall of a world which was never perfect. And such is life.

Those who have been reading this blog over the past two years might remember that my brush with cancer took the perception of mortality out of the cupboard and placed it on my shoulder, there to sit in permanent state and whisper in my ear when the mood is conducive. And so it was this evening. The conviction settled that it won’t be long before I meet my own Mordred, and take the fall, and rest in the arms of three queens en route to Avalon.

But what if there is no Avalon? Maybe there is something else, or maybe there is nothing at all. How can any of us ever know? And which of the alternatives is more comfortable? The persistence of consciousness in a different reality and the possibility of return, or a blessed finale in which there is not even the agony of emptiness?

My life is going to change shortly, and probably not for the better. I’m confused as to whether I really want it to continue or not. I think I probably do because, although I’m tired of life, I’m not yet tired of living. Does that make sense?