Forever Amber

A perpetual autumn before the red alert of winter, a forever amber of status quo that we hope will continue equally unchanging — yet somehow we retain a hope derived from a past awareness that winter is a temporary hibernation not a death at all, so why do some of us, at a certain age, pray that our personal autumn can stay forever?

Amber has a certain sound about it as a word. So does Remember rhyming with December. And that then makes us think of November, as a sort of negative, a gap, a watershed, a hurdle to cross in our yearning for perpetuity. A firework display to celebrate Halloween just gone, a sacred eternity of remembered embers.

But much within us conflicts with our own sense of duty with which we were raised as a child, the driven need to be working, producing, socialising, travelling, even when such activities transgress our perhaps unconscious wish to sit back and self-create. To recreate. Simply to be.

This could have been a poem, but I decided to write it as a story, if one without people, plot and place. A one person story, where I play every rôle. And my thoughts are its props. My finger upon the keyboard its guiding path of words. Its joy my joy. Its horror my horror. The perfect blend of simply being something while still creating something. To render an ember.