The Book I am currently editing – Reality Dreams

This is a section of the book that I am currently editing. It was the first book that I ever wrote. I started it back in 1971.

I am rewriting/editing it for my own satisfaction. I will publish it shortly in a fit of nostalgia. It is a weird one. It is called Reality Dreams.

I’d like to know what you think?

The moon still hung as a complete orb in the sky, racing through the hazy clouds and every now and then disappearing altogether as it played ‘hide-and-seek’ behind the curtains. On the distant horizon of the domed canopy of sky was revealed a curve as the first fingers of crimson flame were clawing at the skyline sending drapes of orange and mauve to stain the heavens and send warning to the darker hues that the sun was about to rear its head above the ground.

Rapidly the darkness was being driven back from the sultry hills to crawl into crevices before being forced underground once more. That inky blackness was oozing back from the sky, and all the land, to seep back to its daytime lair; streaming organically from everything that was, to briefly accumulate in pools and ragged shadows before retreating. Skeletal trees remained silhouetted in the darkest pitch against the vivid colours of the brightening sky as symbols of a last defiance, still shouting out that darkness has its beauty too, their sharp images contrasting against the heavens in a futile battle as light flooded the world bringing its warmth and colour and giving life. For without the sun nothing lives.

The frost that swaddled the land in a brittle film of crystalline icing sugar immediately began to melt as if in welcoming delight as the first warmth hit. The hills and rolling landscape began to slowly warm with those first delicate rays and give forth their own radiance with all the passion of nature’s own heather mauves and bracken green in an unmatched impressionist masterpiece. As the frost thawed the foliage was left with a million glistening globes of dew each mirroring a tiny reflection of the eye of the sun creating a panorama of sparkling beads in an array of nature’s diamonds.

On the gorse the spiders sat in quiet frustration as their days work is displayed for all to see – and avoid, as a perfectly arranged string of pearls, waiting for the sun to do its work and dry their efforts back to invisibility.

The hills are silent except for the chatter of birds, singing from the highest branches to lay claim to all they survey, and the babble of the brooks as they tumble and splash across the rocks.

The day world has slept while the more ephemeral world of night has acted out its part. Yet each reawakening is different. Everything is rehoused with a new coat of paint and fresh memories with which to ponder the lives that never were.

The solitude is broken by the tremor of a new sound which rises incongruously on the crisp morning air. It is the swishing of legs through the vegetation and the fall of feet on the soil. The faint drumming sends a quiver through the ground that alerts all creatures. They listen and scent the air for the breath of a predator on the breeze.

On the horizon a new figure lopes into view standing out in the desolate landscape and making no attempt to conceal himself. It is a solitary man running with a steady gait through the undergrowth, effortlessly following the trails left by nature across the virgin hills. He bounds over rough terrain from hillock to hillock, his arms spread as he leaps, delighting in the freedom of his body.

Despite the cold, rivulets of sweat trickle down his face and are sprayed into the air as he jumps and silently exclaims. He is alive. It is a new day and a good day to be alive.

He pauses on the brow of a hill to survey the dawn. Gentle wisps of vapour rise from his body and his breath puffs out clouds that hang in the air like steam from a train. Then he races on with muscles, sliding, pulling and powering like well-oiled pistons, energy flowing in an unending stream and brain singing with chemistry.

His skin was flushed with the delight of life and his face was fixed into a permanent orgasmic mask. His waist-length hair flowed out in his wake, rippling in the air as it streamed after him in its attempt to keep pace.

From a distance his graceful movements seemed to make him glide across the hills in a lazy, even pace, up and down and along without effort.

His naked feet and legs rejected the attacks of the coarse vegetation and hard ground. They were leathery and tanned and grown used to such abuse. There was little that disturbed them greatly and they seemed to have a mind of their own as they avoided the worst of the danger.

Messny was alive. His body was an organic machine in harmony with the environment around him. His racing had taken him in a huge circle during which he had surveyed hundreds of square miles of land with that first light of day. He had breathed in the nascent air, dreamed the strength of the land and sucked it in. He wanted to not only be alive but to feel it.

He returned, deep of breath, but not tired. His morning circuit had left him reinvigorated. He had breathed the spirit of the land and pronounced himself a part of it.

With a countenance of satisfaction he bathed the sweat from his body in the tingling waters of an icy stream.

He had wakened to a new day – a strong day.