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Autumn & Entropy - The Horizon V
The Horizon
As the curtain closes upon fall, the colour and vigor of the earth fades into bittersweet memory. In the northern parts of the world, we measure and catalogue a great many things and attend to a great many matters as the colour pales. We take stock of our achievements and grieve our failures as the fields fall fallow and the harvest cut. We steel ourselves against the coming dark and look to the sky for the telltale signs of winter. Dark clouds in the north, great-winged formations heading south, and a frigid bite in the air, foretell the closing of fall. And as the last lonely leaf falls to the earth, a maelstrom stirs in the empty north and turns its terrible gaze upon us. Dread Boreas looms in frozen lands beyond the dark northern horizon. It will descend upon us and wreak frigid havoc across the land when autumn breathes its last breath. The will of icy Boreas is one of desolation and despair, and soon it will race down from the white wastes and bear with it grim tidings from those desolate shores. Northward, I set my sights beyond the forests aflame. Beyond peaceful country roads and pleasant days, I looked, and it was there. Waiting behind the storms and in the gales, seething and roiling. It took all of my muster to break its despairing thrall and remain grounded in the present. For winter would come to pass, regardless of the will of men like me.
Beauty, both fleeting and glorious, saturated every facet of the scene before me. Under the rich light of late October, each fading detail was born anew, like a phoenix rising from pallid ashes. The tenuous hand of autumn had caressed the land one last time and stripped away its withered veneer. And I was thankful. Fall is a fickle season, equal parts artistry and ruin. Colour and pallor. Beauty and rot. If there was such a day that personified the pure definition of autumn, today was that day. Astonishing scenes at every junction of light and eye. As is often the case, I had neglected to record any of it. Without even drawing the sabre of light, I hadn’t released the shutter since disembarking at the trailhead. With a shrug, I had realized my chosen gear was ill-suited to the task at hand. So, I rested an arm upon the metal construct, tightly strapped across my chest and paused in thought. With fondness, my calloused fingers traced the machined contours of the colossal beast. A familiar companion that had been indispensable during countless campaigns.
A big brutish piece of glass, it was unwieldy and downright cumbersome in its execution. It offered no mercy, nor forgiveness, and demanded nothing less than technical perfection. The mighty light sabre is a long gun that only fires when the sun is bright, the stars are in harmonious alignment, and the birds are sitting still. It is a rare occasion indeed when the meteorological madmen foretell of pristine conditions and I can seize the opportunity to put the beast to use. As I carried the howitzer into the field that October afternoon, I knew I should have carried something closer to a sniper rifle or scalpel in its stead. The beast was a poor companion when confined to tight quarters and was ill-suited to paint the sensor with wide strokes of light. I couldn’t bring the monster in close enough for the big sky and distance of the countryside, no matter how technical my prowess.
The scenery oozed thick crimson and dripped with lush orange and yellow tones. Succulent amber and gold tinted the light, thus gilding the panoramas splendidly. The scene shimmered as I beheld its magnificence. Painful light assaulted my eyes; the sort of light that lances deep into the optic nerves, as the shadows bleed into the colour. It blurred my vision with a frontal assault of palettes too deep and saturated for the mind to discern. With no means of capturing the beauty of this fantastic realm, I feared a retreat was in order. Deep regret would taint the autumnal outing, if I did not capture some of its otherworldly beauty. Regret would undermine each minute, and every moment would unravel before me. Not acting now would only end in ruin.
The voice in my head struggled to be heard amid a torrent of fanciful thoughts concerning a gorgeous afternoon. Not to be mistaken for the malicious or ill-spirited murmurs that can infect the mind, the voice is nothing more than common sense. Practical planning. Reasonable expectation, and just about every sensible and realistic part of my being. It’s the voice I tend to ignore most days. There are moments I take notice of the voice and the counsel that it gives, but oft-times it gets lost in the ever-present cacophony in my head. The usual suspects; sensory overload, shiny objects, anything blue, and spiders fill the bulk of my thoughts, leaving room for little else. There was a newcomer to the cerebral chaos, a magnificent melody from eighties synth pop duo Duran Duran. Hungry Like the Wolf has become the ambience to my existence as I jaunt across the countryside in search of its secrets. At first I welcomed the familiar tune, a fresh change from the previous track mired in my recesses of my brain. Hungry was a classic, but its nostalgic tempo soon became a garbled, ill- timed mess stuck between verse and chorus, skipping through my mind. Though, the song is getting a bit long in the tooth as of late. So, if that inner voice of mine cannot best a performance by gargantuan spiders dressed in blue petticoats, executing chorus line kicks in sync to Hungry Like the Wolf, then it remains last in a long line of potential suitors for my attention.
That afternoon, it was a little more insistent on acquiring my attention. The voice of all reason got through, so I listened. I paused, my shoulders slouched, and drifted off into a thousand-yard stare. Or so I would assume, at any rate. I assumed that is what a passerby would have seen in the forest at that moment. A grown man standing out there alone in a fuguelike state. Listening to something only he could hear. Staring into a distance only he could see. A normal scene, I would suspect. Nothing creepy or strange about it at all.
Presently, I finished congress with reason and logic, before deciding to make a hasty retreat to the truck. I realized after my inner deliberations, that if I were to pass on this magnificent opportunity, there would be much grief. Lament would cripple me for the rest of the day and in the dim days to follow. To achieve that end, I required the proper tools, a second camera with an adequate lens. One with a more liberal attitude. For the first time that day, I turned my back on the enchanted forest that beckoned with its mythic secrets, and made my way back to the trailhead. The leaves danced in procession across the earth, dressed in the radiant fineries of fall. They meandered on the warm breeze and drifted in cadence with my step. In communion, the leaves murmured and whispered as I went.
© ccouling
#inspiration #inspire #LifeQuote #strength
As the curtain closes upon fall, the colour and vigor of the earth fades into bittersweet memory. In the northern parts of the world, we measure and catalogue a great many things and attend to a great many matters as the colour pales. We take stock of our achievements and grieve our failures as the fields fall fallow and the harvest cut. We steel ourselves against the coming dark and look to the sky for the telltale signs of winter. Dark clouds in the north, great-winged formations heading south, and a frigid bite in the air, foretell the closing of fall. And as the last lonely leaf falls to the earth, a maelstrom stirs in the empty north and turns its terrible gaze upon us. Dread Boreas looms in frozen lands beyond the dark northern horizon. It will descend upon us and wreak frigid havoc across the land when autumn breathes its last breath. The will of icy Boreas is one of desolation and despair, and soon it will race down from the white wastes and bear with it grim tidings from those desolate shores. Northward, I set my sights beyond the forests aflame. Beyond peaceful country roads and pleasant days, I looked, and it was there. Waiting behind the storms and in the gales, seething and roiling. It took all of my muster to break its despairing thrall and remain grounded in the present. For winter would come to pass, regardless of the will of men like me.
Beauty, both fleeting and glorious, saturated every facet of the scene before me. Under the rich light of late October, each fading detail was born anew, like a phoenix rising from pallid ashes. The tenuous hand of autumn had caressed the land one last time and stripped away its withered veneer. And I was thankful. Fall is a fickle season, equal parts artistry and ruin. Colour and pallor. Beauty and rot. If there was such a day that personified the pure definition of autumn, today was that day. Astonishing scenes at every junction of light and eye. As is often the case, I had neglected to record any of it. Without even drawing the sabre of light, I hadn’t released the shutter since disembarking at the trailhead. With a shrug, I had realized my chosen gear was ill-suited to the task at hand. So, I rested an arm upon the metal construct, tightly strapped across my chest and paused in thought. With fondness, my calloused fingers traced the machined contours of the colossal beast. A familiar companion that had been indispensable during countless campaigns.
A big brutish piece of glass, it was unwieldy and downright cumbersome in its execution. It offered no mercy, nor forgiveness, and demanded nothing less than technical perfection. The mighty light sabre is a long gun that only fires when the sun is bright, the stars are in harmonious alignment, and the birds are sitting still. It is a rare occasion indeed when the meteorological madmen foretell of pristine conditions and I can seize the opportunity to put the beast to use. As I carried the howitzer into the field that October afternoon, I knew I should have carried something closer to a sniper rifle or scalpel in its stead. The beast was a poor companion when confined to tight quarters and was ill-suited to paint the sensor with wide strokes of light. I couldn’t bring the monster in close enough for the big sky and distance of the countryside, no matter how technical my prowess.
The scenery oozed thick crimson and dripped with lush orange and yellow tones. Succulent amber and gold tinted the light, thus gilding the panoramas splendidly. The scene shimmered as I beheld its magnificence. Painful light assaulted my eyes; the sort of light that lances deep into the optic nerves, as the shadows bleed into the colour. It blurred my vision with a frontal assault of palettes too deep and saturated for the mind to discern. With no means of capturing the beauty of this fantastic realm, I feared a retreat was in order. Deep regret would taint the autumnal outing, if I did not capture some of its otherworldly beauty. Regret would undermine each minute, and every moment would unravel before me. Not acting now would only end in ruin.
The voice in my head struggled to be heard amid a torrent of fanciful thoughts concerning a gorgeous afternoon. Not to be mistaken for the malicious or ill-spirited murmurs that can infect the mind, the voice is nothing more than common sense. Practical planning. Reasonable expectation, and just about every sensible and realistic part of my being. It’s the voice I tend to ignore most days. There are moments I take notice of the voice and the counsel that it gives, but oft-times it gets lost in the ever-present cacophony in my head. The usual suspects; sensory overload, shiny objects, anything blue, and spiders fill the bulk of my thoughts, leaving room for little else. There was a newcomer to the cerebral chaos, a magnificent melody from eighties synth pop duo Duran Duran. Hungry Like the Wolf has become the ambience to my existence as I jaunt across the countryside in search of its secrets. At first I welcomed the familiar tune, a fresh change from the previous track mired in my recesses of my brain. Hungry was a classic, but its nostalgic tempo soon became a garbled, ill- timed mess stuck between verse and chorus, skipping through my mind. Though, the song is getting a bit long in the tooth as of late. So, if that inner voice of mine cannot best a performance by gargantuan spiders dressed in blue petticoats, executing chorus line kicks in sync to Hungry Like the Wolf, then it remains last in a long line of potential suitors for my attention.
That afternoon, it was a little more insistent on acquiring my attention. The voice of all reason got through, so I listened. I paused, my shoulders slouched, and drifted off into a thousand-yard stare. Or so I would assume, at any rate. I assumed that is what a passerby would have seen in the forest at that moment. A grown man standing out there alone in a fuguelike state. Listening to something only he could hear. Staring into a distance only he could see. A normal scene, I would suspect. Nothing creepy or strange about it at all.
Presently, I finished congress with reason and logic, before deciding to make a hasty retreat to the truck. I realized after my inner deliberations, that if I were to pass on this magnificent opportunity, there would be much grief. Lament would cripple me for the rest of the day and in the dim days to follow. To achieve that end, I required the proper tools, a second camera with an adequate lens. One with a more liberal attitude. For the first time that day, I turned my back on the enchanted forest that beckoned with its mythic secrets, and made my way back to the trailhead. The leaves danced in procession across the earth, dressed in the radiant fineries of fall. They meandered on the warm breeze and drifted in cadence with my step. In communion, the leaves murmured and whispered as I went.
© ccouling
#inspiration #inspire #LifeQuote #strength
