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Some Candy Talking


The freezing sun slowly sinks a feeble ray ever so deeply into the breaking mind of the lost boy. The harsh light casts shadows on his life and, like life, each shadow reminds him of the past. Tearing at those fractured images. Replicating each memory. Pecking at some unseen time. Nibbling away at the colours. Gnawing away at his heart. The aching hurts. The hurting aches and the bright colours wash away. Yes, the colours fade slowly away, just a distant memory, until the bleak lonely greyness overhangs all that there is, all that there will be and all that ever existed. Caught in time the waxen hand ceases to move, the pen no longer chooses to write and the empty diary still lies open and inviting beneath his muted eyes. There had always been so much to say, many strange thoughts and impossible dreams, but he just knew the page would continue to remain blank. It was untouched. Waiting. Wanting. Wanton. Time was now passing so slowly - who can tell, who is to judge, maybe the time was right and the perception is wrong, maybe it was just an unendurably long passage of time. Who can tell? Who can judge? Anyway, the moments seemed to be extending, possibly the same moment was being repeated endlessly, over and over, over and over again until, suddenly, a thought occurs, a wheel turns, the moment arrives, the wallpaper is no longer important, and those dull eyes just shine. It is an unearthly light that shines with life, with love (or even, maybe, tears) because he knows that he has something to say. Something so vital, so important, that it cannot wait any longer and the once still hand begins to write, furiously across the page, almost afraid that the moment will end before it can all be written down. Finally, it is done, it is barely legible, but it is there, everything underneath the printed date of 25 October 2005. He smiles, content and satisfied, the outcome is assured. He knows that they will all come, that they will all be there. Those admiring souls – so eager to hear, so eager to see and so eager to bear witness to his latest contribution towards the apocryphal end of days. He smiles again. His work is done and he relaxes, sitting back to wait for their little replies - like the congregational responses made during prayer - the unending liturgical variations of "Yes, we'll be there" and "Book me in for a team of four". Yes, some will even print a copy of the poster and place it carefully on a wall near their desk and, in those many idle and reflective moments, gaze at it with affection and look for comfort and inspiration. "Yes, if only" I seem to hear them gently whisper. They make the journey to a better place. A pilgrimage - some will come alone - a willingness to just be there, be near. To be part of that shining light and hope, beyond all expectation, to almost see the greater glory. Until that most ultimate of tributes finally echoes and reverberates around the room as, in ecstasy, they cry and chant the words "Yeah, you go girl"