The fourteenth instalment of The Dark Months imagine the world from a different vantage, a world where falsehoods and lies become very clear, quite accidentally.
The Dark Months – Fourteen
Today was one of ‘those’ days.
We all have them. Where the desire to break free is outweighed by the inability to do so; butterflies pinned to boards.
I managed the ladder, attached the extension, and made it to the guttering. Holding on tight; knuckles pointing like meringue peaks. Autumn is the season of leaves, and leaves there were aplenty. And from more than one season at that.
The dank ooze had an oleaginous quality, somewhere between solid and liquid, a kind of mystical and liminal state, but one with consequences.
A cold, wet sleeve.
The ladder gently bounces as winds whip the eaves.
Up here, it’s like being in many places at once. The sound from below, above and afar is equal. Yet the disparity in worlds is all too clear, looking down, seeing worn tiles on roofs, swollen gutters, gardens laid waste or untended. The story told is of busy lives, but also of denial.
A bus roars, engine gunning. Diesel, faint, but pungent. A departing tendril of mechanical power waning. And then, again, the damp, musty, mutinous smell of autumn asserts itself.
The gutters were clear.
This world is ready for cleansing.