Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Cape Wrath Night Vigil before the dawn


On the terrace of the Hypnotic Shoppe,  the absence of the train and station, the hospital with its emergency vehicle traffic, and all the quaint businesses lining the age old creaky piers, allowed the ocean's timeless surf to ebb and flow audibly in the moonlight. Normally it is barely possible to make out the surge, and now its crashing splashing rung out from its dashing upon the Winterfell rocks, just a narrow Strait away.

   Parked above was the old 12:02. Like ,, well, like clockwork. Sentinel to a silent land. There weren't even ghosts or a faint haunting spirit in the air; they'd moved on, likely on to Brigadoon next door. They know a thing about ghostly apparitions there.

   It was then I realized- it was my beach house all over again. Too full of pride, and too aged to cry out, the ancient land stared up at the cold Night Governor, refusing to utter a sound of sadness or regret. The sea knew these might be the last laps on Cape Wrath shoreline, not so much louder about it as more defined. The Cape had won its medals, fought in the wars, given birth to many nearby sims; it was content to stare its end  in the eye with honor, alone, but not lonely.

   And yet, the 12;02 stayed.  Now past 3:00, the empty gondola hung low under her frameless dirigible. She hovered over the gold plated platform long after she was due at other stops.  Not much deters the CATS from their appointments; what was it she knew?

   My feet ran with the typical doll like grace of a trained ballerina doll, stairs two at a time up the high ladderway to the top. They had left the platform, but taken the elevator. There was great meaning there, but I chose not to chase it from its thicket of murky ionic fluid.

   I watched Night's fleet minister move across the cold Heavens, nearing the dawning of the Cape's last day.  The CAT airship blew its airhorn twice, loud enough to be heard on both sides of the peninsula, and then begun to move, its work done. I agreed, stepping on board. The trip to Oxbridge Village took a long time, but I was mired in deep thoughts which must be how humans live every day. I pitied them then, and yet knew that in less that 18 hours I would have that which separated me from their Truth, their understanding, their fleshly key to the terrifying back rooms of consciousness. Unable to fathom such intents, nor divinely allowed to, The Cat ship and I had found a great illumination to that abyssal scape of the sentient. We had sat the night vigil. Dawn was coming, as always happens after darkest night.

Southern Oxbridge Village, looking north at the Steam Sky Commons from my porch


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