Sitting in my mobile sanctuary, watching the darkness turn to dawn and the morning slowly unfold.
Mountains, once shrouded in mist and barely noticeable, made majestic once more as they dominate the blue skyline, freed by the potential of a new day.
As I sit and consider the world from the comfort of a warm sleeping bag and with the glow of the mornings coffee, I think about how Time passes, how the seasons have changed in the many places I have seen and how children I know continue to grow (either with or) without me.
I forget (until one of the social reminders like birthday or Christmas) that I am ageing and so are the people I know and care about.
I can sometime feel like I am travelling in a space outside Time. Perhaps because the concept of Time is across a linear frame and yet the Present is located in the single moment.
Writing provides a conduit for the Present and Time to inhabit the same space. The act of creation being able to encompass many areas of life which appear impossible to conjoin.
I love the process of creative thought and the way that ideas swirl around in much the same way that the mists swirl and cling to the low places in the mountainside.
Thoughts find a place to settle, often quickly scribbled on scraps of paper which languish alone at the bottom of my rucksack until they collide in a chance encounter with another rogue note, creating a moment of kinetic energy which in turn sparks a new set of scribblings.
Just as I sit and watch the mists drift from numerous mountains and hillsides, allowing the shapes of people and schools and houses to be revealed where before there were only sounds and blind faith to indicate life, I consciously take images etched in my mind and put them into prose.
The water bouncing over shallow rocks in the winding green river below. The tiny houses perched impossibly on cliff edges on the other side. The sounds of folk music fused with modern rap drifting up from the village below, fast and tinny, flute and voice, the quality of sound and high volume coming through speakers I imagine to be held together by twine and votive offerings.
The bell from the school heralding the next class. A small lizard becomes my brief companion as we both enjoy a sunny place for a moment.
Writing as a way to hold the moving moment still. A way to capture Time.