We live alone and we live on the echoes. The echoes of starlings, the echoes of clouds, the echoes of better days, the echo of the sea turning to angry autumn. The echoes of what we did and did we? The echoes of what we said and why did we say it? The echoes of your childhood thoughts mixing with your grown up ones like black paint dissolving in clear water. Echoes. Amy places her hands over her ears but it is only then that she realises the echoes are not outside – they are in our heads.
Each memory is an echo of what we were – distorted to make us the ultimate star in the film of Our Life.
Whoever thought they were the villain? But there are plenty of villains so someone somewhere is lying to themselves. The echoes of laughter that no longer travel along with you in these greying darkening days of early November. November creeps up like a threat as soon as we blow out our pumpkin lighters through garish mouths roughly carved with anger or carelessness. November is the start of something – a big sleep and in those winter dreams those echoes are amplified. Amy reads and writes as consolation next to the fire and the dog who dreams echoless dreams. The fire crackles its message of approaching storms dimmed only slightly by the glow of Christmas appearing twinkling light by twinkling light in the charity chops which mock the poor and make the rich feel righteousness as they drop off bags of clothes that seemed more exciting last year. Rich and poor always hungry for a bargain, the appetite drives this season until January kills it with silent sheer black silence. Even the echoes respect January.
Extract from new work in progress……