Cracking an Egg Over the Pan of Dawn

Morning thoughts of last nights events

I had to untangle a bit of it at first. It stuck around the nape of my neck like an amulet waiting for its opportunity to strike at whatever evil existed just outside of myself. I was not in the right frame of mind to argue or even to reproach such a gift that it had given me, in its entanglement. There was a sense of honesty there. I told myself that I would live with it as long as it felt like I was fulfilling some prophesy or some direct need that was embedded inside my brain from before it was a brain, from its molecular structure, from the atoms themselves. Then I thought, does consciousness have atoms? Does the meaning exist in their minuscule bodies? I mean to say, is the vacuum of space also a vacuum made of atoms in the same way my Dyson knock off is made of material -- which is made of molecules, which is made of atoms? I turn it on. The green light emanates, knocks on the door of each particle of dust to reveal it to me as if it say you’re times up. It takes on the shape of death in this way, they, much like myself, do not know how to place chess and therefore cannot beat its strategic movements any more than I could. I put on music to hide the sound of the machine, which is the figure of death, not parading around in a cloak but suctioning all traces of life. In exposing and disposing of these particles of dust, it enacts the scythe hook of an ending. The traces of last year’s mince pies. The cardboard box laying on the kitchen counter ready for recycling. The year broke over the cigarette in the skyline. Which is to say the fumes of the recycling plant that dwell past the shadows of the train tracks, spreading over the horizon, noxious and all consuming. As if cracking an egg over the pan of dawn, the fireworks had replicated the patterns of the universe in their choreography. The same chemicals that compose the outside also compose the inside. At first, I was sitting on a disruptive feeling. The feeling that N’s emotions towards me were different, had changed seemingly overnight. That his love waned, as did his interest in my desires or mental acuity -- a series of tangential curiosities that certainly ran away from me and me from them. I was wrong of course, this man could not love me more completely. I knew this intuitively and yet my affliction was inventive in its enterprise and equally as relentless. I told myself to release the idea that his silence and unwillingness to visit a room replete with strangers was anything other than the result of his own mental state. The chattering exhausts him, inside him, that voice that is at once himself and not of his control. It gets away from him at times, as is to be expected. I’ve resigned to the fact that the year broke open like an egg at its climax, indebted to midnight, by the slow dawning of all these questions, coiled up and exposed in the hours prior. From the window we could see the multi-coloured bevelled tip of the Shard and the top quarter half of the London Eye rotating creeping inch by creeping inch near, what I know to be, the Thames. The rain on the glass window, large and imposing, provide an enlightened view into the clarity of a future that we have yet to face. It captures the droplets in the same spherical shapes as the bursting chemicals did in the clouds late last night, last year. Everything in this world is cyclical. The train passes by every 5 minutes or so, every 5. The birds cross diagonally through a subsection of the sky and at times the airplanes follow suit, growing smaller as they recede into the great horizon. I’m reading ‘The Use of Photography’ at the moment, in bed. I revel in the traces Annie and Marc leave behind for one other, for themselves as a symbol of their passion. Annie admits to herself or perhaps all of us, having already decided that her writing was inextricably linked with her life, that to witness the discarded remains of their rendezvous’ in daylight was to “feel the passage of time”. I feel desire swell in my chest. I glance over to N and dawn a smile, hoping the same fervent passion to last well into our old age. Artists falling in love, how expected. He reads a book about experimental films and writes in a journal made with intersecting crosshatches on the pages, grids from which he blocks out his thoughts, the angularity of his words taking hold, hosted between the scaffolding. I like my pages unlined. I am never sure what shape my words will take and that is reason enough to do it. The tangling at the nape of my neck easing only after revealing the crux of its confusion with the tarnishing of my pages. I ask myself what I want from time. What is it I want from time? The solution lies ahead of me, only in the doing will it reveal itself. For once I am self-sufficient to a degree I had only ever dreamt of being. I am given time, which is more than most could say. What will I do with it? Tell the truth of it, of it all. The truth within the lie, within the lies we tell ourselves to be able to face the truth itself. That we are fleeing, that we are all so equally fleeting. That we shall love each other because we are equal and we are fleeting. That the dawn will break like an egg over the horizon and we will be unable to do anything about it but witness its disruption. That death can play chess. That we haven’t spent enough millennia learning to best him. That he will one day win and we will have nothing to show of it but the memories we leave behind within the minds of others.

The water stain that is produced by the small hole in the handle of my mug, a mug N got me from his work trip to India, which had stored water from the dishwasher as it was cleaned last year, at 11pm, last night which was also last year, has now evaporated. Time rushes everything out of our plane at one point or another. The mist outside, the mist from outside will evaporate from the window and the clarity of the sun will reveal it.