Mists

The mists of time are clearing to throw into relief angels where others see empty space. Nothing remains save the ghosts haunting portraits in the gallery of life. Some who flitted into this shard of my memories and detached thoughts are made flesh in the recollection thereof, which almost affords a corporeal form despite them being presented here as no more than words, albeit, for me at least, breathing subjects, refusing to fade — even though their reflection might have long dissolved.

It occurred, as this haunted gallery was revisited, that I, too, am near being a wandering phantom, whose cry on metaphorical, if not metaphysical, moors for unlived days and uneaten bread might yet be heard. A fate that awaits us all in the consciousness of those who remain behind — glimpsing us through the prism of time; a prism sometimes clouded by mists making the past become opaque.

There is the fourth dimension — by no means divorced from the more familiar three related to space — which we now know to be time. It is every bit as real as the visible now in which we are seemingly restricted. Ghosts (spirits), of course, are not governed by time. Hence certain key moments of my life, in effect, are alive in the intimate portraits and recollections I offer. The reader is invited to view them — chosen from a vast array — comprising some from my earthly existence.

What follows is only a fragment, albeit an important fragment, of the puzzle, and I do not lay claim to this humble scribble providing anything more than an arbitrary wander along an eerie corridor where memory stirs. The reality I once experienced no longer exists in the space I now occupy, but it still exists in the past — as a fading photograph or cobweb-covered portrait in a forgotten attic.