To me it was always obvious. I could see it behind your eyes as clearly as a full moon in a cloudless sky. No amount of grey could disguise the truth that I knew you had always worked so hard bury. And, to much of the outside world, for all its general indifference, it seemed that you had succeeded. No bad words were uttered either at your arrival or upon your departure. To those with whom you brushed shoulders you were the epitome of charm and politeness; not from you bitter words or vitriolic jealousy, hatred or intolerance. If anything your accepting and forgiving nature made you a person of admiration and respect; a person to whom others would turn for advice, support and a listening ear. You had garnered, without ever wishing for it, a reputation for being a point from which nothing moved on any further; a trustworthy soul who could be relied upon to hold the darkest of secrets, secrets that their owners knew would follow you to your final resting place.

For yourself, it appeared, you carried no great or ambition or drive to achieve anything other than the happiness of those around you. That and an acceptance that you were who you were and that your altruism hid no ulterior motive. Of course there were almost certainly those who would not accept your demeanor as the normal behaviour of a human being – surely everybody was merely self-motivated and their actions, no matter how they may have been presented, were always designed for self-gain and reward. But then, for them at least, you were nothing more than a blip in their lives, something they might have side stepped on the pavement and given not a moment’s more thought to. Perhaps even those who thought that they knew you well felt the same way, and, once doors were closed, you became nothing more than a memory to them. And yet there was always a shadow behind your eyes; a shadow that now, I realise, could only seen by me – a shadow so dense as to all but obliterate what lay beneath.

I could see it every time that I looked into your eyes. It was hiding, or at least doing its best to hide, behind the veils of darkness that layered themselves like a defensive fortress deep within. There it lurked shifting from shadow to shadow, lurching like a caged animal, its constant mutterings echoing within your head. I watched it, on a daily basis, sowing seeds of destruction, fear and doubts; seeds that would sprout and then die in an instant leaving only rotting roots. Of course there was nothing that I could do; after all, what purpose would there be in pointing out something that you were already more than familiar with – something that you had grown to accept as a guest who showed no inclination to move on. You had grown together for such a long time that, by now, you had no recollection of when your paths had first crossed, and it had become impossible to discern where you ended and it began. Behind the facade that you wore you had become inseparable; neither could not depart the other.

Even as you closed your eyes I knew that you could not shut out that which had grown within you; you could never sever the limb, and I was left wondering at what point would you would turn yourself inside out.

Ice angels danced delicate designs across the midnight blue which had, by now, swallowed the sky. Their patterns pirouetted and spiralled down where they settled in silent deaths on beds of white. Winter was clinging on now by its finger tips as if it were aware that a change was drawing ever closer; in its death throes it had cast its purple-grey cloak across the sky. The day’s blue had become white and now the black was tinged with rich plum hues; snow continued to fall softly icing the carpet which had long since covered both green and black alike, brushing away any signs that anything had been this way before.

And for us it was as if nothing ever had. The virgin crispness which stretched out before us was a canvas onto which our oils had not yet spilled. We had no need for instruction, no cause to call upon the saints or spirits of those who had come before to be our guides. There was no reason to fall at the feet of the Fates and have them foretell our futures; the picture was ours and ours alone to paint.

You held my hand that night and I clutched yours as if it were the most precious treasure that I could have found. I held you gently, delicately as we walked, never wishing to release you to the night, cradling your hand like a new-born as our feet crunched their prints into the snow, which glistened like a bed of diamonds beneath us. Our breaths cut ribbons through the ice intertwining as if they had been expelled by one being; if was no longer possible to discern where I ended and you began. We slipped through the silent night like a whisper, like a dream that the gods had once had, long before we had either shape or form. A dream within a dream; a dream that could only be dreamed by the gods; and yet here we were, side by side, heart in heart, our footsteps, soundless in the darkness marking jewels in the dust.

We walked along streets silenced by the snowfall; I laughed when you lay on the ground and made snow angels, and you smiled at my jokes. Our voices, so quiet in the night, rang loudly inside our heads, echoing the words we had spoken and those we had no need to air. They hung between us as we strolled past houses that had long since lulled themselves to sleep. To us they seemed to huddle even closer than usual as if they were seeking to keep one another warm. But we knew we had no need for such actions, such comfort; what we held between us was enough.

We turned the last corner and I walked the final few yards and stood outside the house where you had lived.

It had been more than thirty years. A lifetime. A lifetime which, like most, had begun with so much promise, so much positivity; so much surety that no obstacle existed that was too big to surmount; no argument too challenging to overcome. And yet, as time had rolled by, there had been a steady, almost imperceptible, unravelling of hopes and dreams and ambitions. Life had slowly seeped into each day until it had silently smothered living and only a sense of existence remained.

Gone the comfortable house in an affluent neighbourhood; the expensive car, the holidays to exotic places which had once dwelled only in dreams. Gone, too, the relationships upon which a life had been built – friends, lovers, partners – all lost to the breeze like fleeting clouds on a summer’s day, dissipated to the blue with barely an acknowledgement of their departure.

The car drew to a halt outside the house – a spacious, immodestly designed semi-detached property whose rooms looked to spill out onto the small patch of gravelled frontage which lay between it and the pavement. It was a far cry from the tiny, rented one bedroomed apartment from which the car had come; one hundred and forty miles but a world, a lifetime, away. For a while all was still; the silence broken only by the steady tick-ticking of the slowly cooling engine. A door opened and feet stepped out of the vehicle and into the past.

The others had gone. Illness and injury had seen to that, and both now walked a different path. Only one remained, a visitor from afar; a prodigal returning to claim what had fallen into their lap. It was not a question of merit or justification, merely a matter of legality and sanction: an inescapable truth.

On the surface nothing much seemed to have changed. The road still stretched away in both directions from the house, almost as if it were, itself, trying to affect an escape, until it disappeared from view, in one direction downwards and in the other around a sharp turn. As far as could be discerned the houses maintained the same facade as they always had; a disguise as to what ever took place beyond their thresholds. They were still giving nothing away. The house itself, outside which a long figure now stood, seemed both welcoming and menacing in equal measure, as if it wanted to both welcome and smother at the same time. Behind its door lay both the future and the past, and both seemed equally uncertain.

A further step and a key slipped almost soundlessly into a lock. It was turned and the door pushed aside as if it were the present. A dull scent of nostalgia encircled the figure, wrapping its icy tendrils around it, as if sucking its prey into a web. No-one was there to notice the door slowly closing.

The past is nothing but a falsehood, a collection of memories which are either romanticised or exaggerated in their significance: fears found under rocks and dreams formed from the imagined lives of others. Nothing remains. A return is simply a movement from one place to another; any hopes of rewriting history, of re-living distant days, are nothing but pipe dreams for the lost. Everything was as it always had been and yet nothing had remained the same.

As the door slowly closed a curtain fell, replaced by a shroud.

Kyss meg nå

Før det er for sent

Før ulvene spiser hjertene våre

Og fortapt er vi

Fordi uten elsker din

Jeg er men

Et barn mistet

Til vinden

Kiss me now

Before it’s too late

Before the wolves eat our hearts

And we are lost

Because without your love

I am but

A child lost

To the wind

So I said to him, ‘Robert’, I said, ‘will you quit your messing around? The only reason I have to keep re-starting this is because every time I get three parts through you sweep something away. Yes, I know it may only be a strand or two, but sometimes it’s the whole damned thing and I’ve got to start again from scratch. It may only be a joke to you, sunshine, but for me it’s my livelihood. You need to stop taking your frustrations out on others and get yourself sorted.’

Well, as you can imagine, he wasn’t too impressed with that! Here he was, a supposed king (although, to be fair, I didn’t know that at the time and could only surmise his level of importance by his fancy dress) hiding himself away in a dark and dank cave occupying himself with a bit of housework whilst having a good old whinge to himself about something I could not make head nor tail of.

And I wouldn’t have minded his being around if it weren’t for two things; firstly that he was quite loud (particularly for a person who was clearly on the run from somebody) but moreover for the fact that he seemed obsessed with destroying my efforts. I don’t know, perhaps he had an overbearing mother who constantly nagged him about keeping his room tidy? All I can say for sure is that he was terribly irritating.

So, yes, after the umpteenth time of his messing with my web, I snapped (if you’ll pardon my unintentional pun) and vented my annoyance upon him.

Not surprisingly he seemed a little taken aback – hearing me speak was probably the last thing that he had expected whilst he had himself secreted away – but everyone has their breaking point (again, sorry for the pun – once they’ve started coming they seem impossible to resist!), and I must say it showed on his face!

So, yes, I began my rant and I’m not sure whether it was through shock or genuine interest, he did actually appear to listen. Or, at least, not swat me away completely. For a while we sat observing one another in silence. Then, quite elegantly for a man of his stature, I thought, he stood up and muttered the last word I was ever to hear leave his lips. ‘Mmm.’

That was it. He picked up his sword which he had propped up against the wall and stomped off out of the cave and down the flank of the mountain with my own final words echoing after him: ‘And don’t go telling anyone else about this,’ I called out, ‘I could do without a horde of busybodies clambering around my home!’ But I doubt that he heard, or was even listening.

And the rest, as they say, is history. Always told in the victor’s voice with barely a nod to us little folk who are behind it all.

They sat, staring into the space occupied by one another, eyes raw-red as if it had been only yesterday. In brief moments their eyes met but each no longer saw the other; words that had once been unnecessary haunted their minds, but were lost now, trapped in labyrinths with exits forgotten.

The table between them was the Andes, folding upon itself as they sat, in precisely place chairs, one on either side. It grew, and now towered above them insurmountable, shadowing each in turn with its presence: she, on one side, with her guilt and doubt and disbelief, he, on the other, with his unshakeable faith and conviction.

She wanted to confront Chronos; to challenge him; to force him to alter his ways, to turn back the sands to earlier days, to a time before.

He wanted to make her see the design in everything, the purpose and reasoning that lay behind it all. To understand the glory of what would be. The profit that underpinned the pain.

She wanted her grief to permeate his skin until he was dripping with her pain and his emotions matched hers. She needed to feel that he was she and she was he.

His soul was filled with silent prayer, a prayer that he knew would grow between them and draw her to his certitude. With no words spoken he could feel it cutting through his pain, his anguish, reaching out to hold her in his arms, his comfort.

She wanted to scream out loud, to scream in his face: ‘Where’s the God in all of this?’

He was standing in exactly the same spot as always. Each morning and every evening; standing without movement; still, statuesque – in the most literal of senses – as if waiting, always waiting. And then he would be gone as if he had vanished into nothingness, dissipated into air that surrounded him; gone as if he had never existed in that spot, at that point in time. Gone, and his presence forgotten, at least for those hours when he existed in some other place or time, until his return the following day. At precisely the same time. And in precisely the same spot.

In earlier days there had been those who had wondered at his presence, concerned their thoughts over his reasons for being there; for standing in a silence so complete that one might have wondered whether or not he was drawing breath into his body. For others he became a topic of discussion, of idle gossip and chit-chat; theories postulated and bounced between those interested as they stood, gazing from what they might have deemed a safe distance. There were still others for whom curiosity grew to become concern, distrust and even fear: how dare such an individual invade what they might have deemed their own personal territory, a place that they considered as a possession for those brief moments that they themselves passed by. Comments were heard, disgruntled, angry and fearful, and there were even those who went that one step further and sought to approach the man, to demand an explanation for his presence. But each voice, no matter how persuasive or raised or forceful was met by the same stone wall of silence. It was as if the man himself were made of granite, impervious to the ravages that came his way, or, at the very least, dumb and mute to their demands.

But, as time moved ceaselessly on until it had arrived at a point where no-one could recall the exact moment when they had first noticed the man, interest had waned, and even those who had harboured concern had either decided that their worries had been pointless or they had come to accept his presence as harmless. People passed by, seeming almost to no longer notice him as he stood in silent stillness, staring, unmoved by the life that swirled around him; people going about their daily routines, moving to and fro with a sense of purpose which they believed unique to them, without which their lives would carry no meaning. A stranger standing, motionless bore no bearing on their existence. And what if he did keep returning, kept up the same routine? As long as he caused them no concern, as far as they were bothered, he could just get on with wasting what life he might have left. Where he came from and where he went were no longer issues of conversation and debate, and his presence had become so expected that it when passers-by returned to their own homes they could sometimes not even be sure that they had seen him – more that they had expected to have seen him so therefore assumed that he actually had been there, standing, as always, silent and ever watchful.

Day followed day followed day. Weeks slipped into months which bled into years, and each day, relentlessly, at the allotted hours the man stood, still, statuesque and waiting. Until, one day, he didn’t.

It should have been a straightforward decision: either remain here in this place, this heaven or hell, this purgatory, this limbo this netherworld ,or leave. Leave and return to the place which, for the whole of my existence, I had called ‘home’.

But, of course, nothing is ever that simple. Nothing is black and white – or should that be black or white? – and even things written in stone become weathered and worn, as unrecognisable as names on ancient headstones. There always has to be a trade-off, a compromise, a decision that rests uncomfortably on one’s shoulders. Perhaps here it might have been reasonable to expect that things would be a little different; that such bargaining would have been removed from one’s own hands and decisions made by whatever greater force was in control. But no, whom ever it was who held the reins, whoever determined the pathways of the future, seemed intent still upon imposing more conditions upon those who walked this way. Even in death, it would appear, one is in shackles. But, of course, nothing is ever that simple. Nothing is black and white – or should that be black or white? – after all even here the senses are swamped with garish colour.

Decisions. To stay; to stay and exist – if that word is even appropriate for the dead – in whatever place I now found myself (assuming, of course, that this was my final destination and that I was not to be taken from this place to another (and to yet more still, perhaps)) or to choose to leave and take my place back amongst the living.

The proposition, on the face of it, seemed to command no real thought: to live was to be; to breathe, to walk, to love. To fill the senses, to feel with every sense and sinew the joy and pain of life. To move amongst the shadows and light and feel the breath of another on one’s skin. To remain here would mean abandoning all that I had once held close, to surrender to the final release, and to leave all that was undone undone.

The caveat came. The same disembodied voice resounding around me like tolling bells, deep and heavy, rumbling through my body, making it impossible for me to decipher its precise origin. Was it, perhaps, even my own voice, a voice of regrets and ambitions, echoing within me driving me to face my past. Some might suggest it to be the sound of my soul or conscience – gods and devils fighting over my fate (but was that even a reasonable thought? What possible use could either have for me now?). But it came nevertheless.

Stay. Surrender your mind, your soul, your being. Give up all that you once were, everything that you had ever been and all the things that you might have been. Stay and leave behind your memory in the hearts of all those who had known you. Leave them with your best. But leave them too with their regrets, their tears, their pain. The space in their hearts that you can no longer fill, and the tarnished memories of everything that they (and you) wish that you had done. The opportunities missed. The words that you should have spoken – and those that you wish that you had never set free, those that will haunt their darkness like ghosts, night terrors which will never be assuaged.

Or choose to return – and, despite the absence of any physical form, I could sense a smile, a grin, now – return and reclaim the chance to revive your life. The chance to hold on to all of your memories, to cling to your past and redeem all the failings that you have left in your wake. Take the opportunity to make amends for all the hurt that has followed you throughout your life; to say the words that you should have spoken and take back those that you regret.

Just one thing to bear in mind, however; should you choose to return, choose to take up the life you once knew, your past will instantly become obsolete. You will be forgotten by all those who you once knew, their memories of you erased, expunged as if they never had existed. To them you will become a complete stranger; no trace of recognition will cross their minds, whilst for yourself you will still recall the minutest of details about the lives you once shared. Nothing in your own mind will have been lost. Rather, every moment spent in the company of colleagues, friends, lovers will become magnified, heightened as if you are watching reels being replayed over and over again, with you, now merely an observer, unable to intervene, unable to recapture or influence your pasts or the scenes as they unfold before you.

I could sense the voice receding as if it were somehow taking a step back, taking the opportunity to leave me with my own thoughts. I was filled with a silence, a stillness which roared inside me with a deafening ferocity; alone, and with only my decision for company.

A bit of an experiment in prose:

There were castles beyond every cloud. Huge, imposing structures whose turrets pierced the skies like golden promises. Cavernous hallways were filled with tales of exploits and adventures; of great romances and quests; of wonder and of justice. Whispers and sighs hung like tapestries on walls whose secrets were unending, gifts like promises to a child’s eye. Wizards wandered from tower to tower as if they were pied pipers trailing magic and mystery behind them like innocents – a word, a gesture, a glance – enough to weave a web.

Kings and Queens, knights and damsels; the page and the serf, each just one step from the first on their journey. Their prize. And outside, beyond the cool stone that was anything other than cold, roamed mythical beasts; creatures borne of the imagination whose realms knew no bounds. Dragons soared with eagles, commanding the skies that we could only marvel at, vast wings casting shadows to be driven away with guile and might. Ah, and promises. Promises that actions bring good fortune, will drive away the demons that lurked in the darkest forests in another land. Promises that our altruistic thoughts will prevail and that what lives in our hearts will always be enough to see us through. Will always be enough to fill us. Will always be enough.

And in corners of a darkening room, corners which light never truly filled, tiny seeds lay, unnoticed, undisturbed, as they had for centuries, for millennia, waiting. As sunlight dipped towards the horizon, leaving us uncertain of its return, the pages turned. From word to ink to mouth they moved, a wisdom of forgotten days, spilling themselves into the silence, filling the room with a new light; a light of hope. They hung in the air, like castles themselves, offering their safety, their protection, as if, simply by laying belief at their door, that would be enough, enough to carry us through our futures, enough for love. And in the end it was always love that prevailed – no matter in which shape or form; it was always love that prevailed.

The words that came, so sweetly from your lips, as if they had been your own; the words that wove their web around me and cast their spell so deeply in my soul that their roots could never be found, came with more than one meaning. They followed me from dream to dream dripping new meanings into my heart as each door opened. And closed.

But I can still see those distant castles beckoning from beyond the clouds.

Min hjert er fylt

Fylt med kjærlighet,

Et kjærlighet størte

Enn verden

Mer vakker enn

Hav

Mer nydelig enn

Himmelen

Og jeg er

I paradis

My heart is filled

Filled with love,

A love greater

Than the world

More beautiful than

The sea

More lovely than

The sky

And I am

In paradise