Tuesday, September 16, 2008

tic-toc

These photos are like lucid dreams; the sights, the smells, the emotions, they are all present and accounted for. Moreso than for the better part of the last three years, since I said goodbye to that tiny anti-spark. The aggression has gone, and the senses are waking up - I didn't even realise that they had gone to sleep. The memories, how things felt, all suddenly ring false; the fact that I remember them at all is a step forward.

A sideways view is better than nothing at all, and the mineshaft this Alice fell down is echoing painfully with the sound of clocks. Time is running out, my White Rabbit has come and gone, and I'm left here, white gloves dangling ridiculously from my pocket. Discarded fairytales find refuge in the imagination as dreams, broken and disjointed.

This awkwardness, shyness, cloistering... is not like the old Alice. She was a huntress, chasing that White Rabbit through the strange, the weird, the perverted. Never giving up, even when threatened by the Queen of all Hearts. One phone call threw the world into chaos, one phone call uncovered a path she thought she left behind, and suddenly this Alice wasn't sure whether she was chasing the Rabbit, or seeking the Hatter.

At least the Chesire Cat is still smiling.

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