The air is different here. Rain clouds form a flat disk above the greasy grasses. The wind sucks with a twist of its mouth.
Time, as we know it, bends around this place. There is no sequence. No beginning, nor end. A daisy flickers between shoot and bloom and decay, all in a matter of moments, all in random succession; decay, shoot, decay, bloom, shoot, bloom, decay, shoot, bloom, shoot, decay.
Those that enter see the wet embers of their experience. Hapless motes of sensation, locked in memory and revisited upon the damp grasses. The warm press of skin. The bright scream of rage. The silent slip of death. People crossing and changing, interlinked like live wires in a tangle of hooks. Moveable, but inescapable. The ghosts of their memory comes back in flashes or long blurs.
It's a painful place to visit, but a necessary one. We know nothing except what has come before. The past is our substance, the present assaults it. If we are to harden, then we must recall.
Paddy Dobson
23rd September 2020