Deluge

There is no other way that I will be able to finish this dissertation unless I write alongside it. I know that this is unusual, writing more to take the edge off of writing, but this is important. When you are struggling to finish something it is often good to do the thing that you love. So here we are...

I knew all throughout this degree that once I had finished I would just write, and write for myself. There is nothing better, nothing plainer that for a writer to write. And the truth is that historians cannot write at all, and that is perhaps the reason why so little of history is known. So to be able to level out all the needless language and bring to the surface what really matters has been a love of mine. I know I am getting there with the dissertation but truly that is only a beginning.


The world seemed to flood just enough to see how beautiful water was...

I dreamt last night that there was a house filled with people I knew and the air in the room carried that strange, unplaceable autumnal scent. I looked about and I recognised people I knew and there were people playing music, sitting talking and some lulling around nearby the balcony. As I looked outside the water from the sea had risen up and surrounded the house.

And all the friends that I knew were themselves, as it were, without trying to mirror what they thought that might be. Just honest like the weave of the night, and talking to each other in relative quiet. I looked down on the floor and saw a page of pictures and bright illustrations, some from memory and some that were new. Brightly rendered with child-like depth, and as I came closer they seemed to be pictures drawn by other people, yet I could identify my own ideas within them. I turned and looked around again and everybody was somewhat contented and aware that this was all a moment in a dream, but that it would last beyond that time. 

See, things change but dreams and memories reside within us regardless of what happens. And all that colour that might have been swept and rendered less clear after waking, as though the water had crept further and made it all vanish, would still keep itself within memory, or in some space in time. After all, a moment is a wide open space. A moment does not pass; is a becoming, and a rendering in and out of life. 

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