Alasdair Watson

It all frays to silver at the edges. Our world-tapestry becomes mercury, the vapours toxic to rational thought. Dreams invade our waking moments, become the element in which we exist, a strange beauty become the only truth we know.

We find that we walk in an alien land, a nightmare landscape of broken metaphors and twice-twisted image. We are forced to navigate by instinct, and deliver ourselves into the waiting arms of strange gods, creatures somehow more than human, and yet too small to save us.

Madness runs like a flame in dry grass, and our only salvation lies in our hindbrain, that lizard reaction at the back of of us. We must evolve thought again, as we struggle to keep our balance on a shifting plate of variegating concepts, and when we do, we find others like us, trapped in this moontime sprawl. Desperate, we rope ourselves together with language and pictogram, develop a syntax of urgent communication.

Emotions are born anew, and paint the mercury world about us with washes of colour, transitory reds and blues and greens and golds, with our anger, pride and passions. We break off into pairs and small groups to better understand this new world we are creating.

And as we dance we find that somewhere below conscious thought, tiny novae of brilliant inspiration flare behind our eyes. We discover friendship and lust and love again, and we do it all for the first time once more.
And this is the world in which we exist. Born anew in fire and poetry at every instant. Where we are marvels and madmen, should we but choose to be aware of it. Where we can do anything that we can dream.