A fourth snapshot – A torch flickering in the shadows.

 Do you ever wonder how you arrived in a particular time or place, especially if it is somewhere that is going to hurt emotionally or physically?

That’s where he’s decided to go for some reason, with one of those hand charged torches. Can you picture the scene inside a deep dark cavern a lone man wanders with a hand-powered torch that he occasionally has to stop and wind-up so that it can give him a flickering light which he can use to examine the skeletons and fossils of monsters from days, if not years gone by.

He’s not sure what he is looking for, perhaps it’s an answer to his problems, an adversary to overcome or a prize that will help him make ‘sense of it all’. However all he seems to find is shells and the dried skin of the ones who came before. Neither of these things tell him if they were successful or if they died as un-fulfilled as he fears he will.

He’s not sure how long he must search or for whom. However he continues hoping that somewhere, somehow he will be given a sign telling him to stop. What he doesn’t seem to have realised is that in places like this, deep in the darkness, deep in the shadows. There are no signals or signs apart from the ones we give meaning to or decide to act upon.

So he searches and hopes that he will find something of value that will help him to value himself. Not realising or perhaps not wanting to realise that only he can give himself meaning or value to any treasure that he finds.

Sh

Oh you lucky ones

Oh you lucky ones standing in the sun,

Hear us standing in the shadows,

There are worse things than death.

Sometimes life can be incurable

Oh you lucky ones drinking from streams,

See us standing in the puddles,

There are worse things than brackish waters.

Sometimes life can poison.

Oh you lucky ones singing songs of union,

Hear us wailing in the distance,

There are worse things than loneliness.

Sometimes a lover cuts deep.

Oh you lucky ones dreaming of retirement,

See us shuffling towards you,

There are worse things than old age.

Sometimes childhood breaks you.

Oh you lucky ones longing to be set free.

See us shackled for unknown offences.

There are worse things than being held.

Sometimes an embrace burns.

Sh