Look to the window, momentarily released from a writing trance. Ten minutes may have passed, or a decade. I check the calendar and a watch. Most of two days, it turns out. I think Boy went to school and we had meals, and other things like flying side kicks with Launceston Young Farmers, like playing in the nursery sandpit with Baby, like brief glimpses of star spattered sky and rippled cloud. But, for the most part, I've been somewhere between 1972 and 1977, between Bristol and Bodmin Moor.
The window is the room, backwards and blurred by double glazing. It's October 19th, 2012, it's nearly half past ten at night. Just for distracting fun, I pull out an old notebook from the desk shelf. My handwriting used to be so neat. Here is what I read:
The spark that removes you from the 'doctrine of perpetual flux.'
When everything changes and you change, and you perpetually move.
Your head spins. Centrifuge breaks you up, no hand holds, no connection.
Without a feel for the eternal, you are lost. You have nothing to compare with, to hold up and say "this is perfection. To strive for."
You can never stop the wheel of birth and death spinning too fast for the sake of it.
Something has to catch your focus. The spark. The inner light that shines.
Once you've seen that light you look for it everywhere.
You might take the right path, you might not.
If you don't hold the light up inside of you it's hard to see the way.
You can make a torch from many different combustable things but the light that really shines does not burn, it merely, incredibly, is.(Magic light.)