The new beginning and the sharp reminders of bitter ends.
The (rightfully) flaunted joys versus the memories of missed opportunities.
The dreams for the future juxtaposed against the uncertainty of the week.
And even as I turn back to face them, the sound of the song flows through my ears and reminds me of that magic wand, that although it’s not real and never could be waved, perhaps, somewhere, there is hope.
Out for the evening then – to the sea – always returning to the place where my blood can pulse in time to the surf, and the light is surreal – brighter somehow than its overland counterpart; like crystal – ready to walk for miles and contemplate the coastline as it fades in the dusk. To see reflections of the lights coming on in the distance. To see whether sunset happens or whether the moon might leave its silvered cat-paws across the surface of the water. To feel that creeping cold in my bones, and shiver, in spite of the still-warmish weather. To sit and watch and listen as the final few gulls call to one another with harsh, spine-tingling cries, echoing throughout the empty skies. To wonder again and again at Reginald Perrin, and wish I had his genius, or his screenwriters, at least.
To midnight we go, as the music turns slightly quieter, more intimate, more intense, and yet still chilled out, but with a beautiful level of funky harmony which keeps you listening more than the once. The soul calls out, wants to be heard, and in the moment, for now, is understood. The future may be or may be not a place I want to know, but tonight…tonight is okay again.
And tomorrow. Tomorrow will be okay.
They turn out a pretty gritty sort of chap where I’m from, and I’ll be ready (by then) to get my jam back and take the bulls (and demons) by the horns.