Nostalgicon, rose tainted grass-specks, receptomiosis.
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I used to think I, the non-theist, was the one who was awake. The one with open eyes staring blankly in the face of man’s theological folly. The one ruled by logic and reason, not blinkered by theology, not crippled by superstition.
Suddenly I realised that I had been trapped in a tumour of time and space like Sleeping Beauty locked in her castle of thorns. Would there be someone to awaken me with a kiss? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d taken a breath. Was I still even alive?
The centre of town was so quiet; usually Cornmarket Street, or any of its sixteenth century arteries, was saturated with the sounds of shoe heals and baby screams and mindless chatter of scientific, political or merely domestic import. Today, all the learned inhabitants were lost in the most extreme expression of human existence and I was a scowling corpse propped up at the gory disco.
I found a bench and sat among the mayhem for I don’t know how long.
I checked my pulse to make sure I was still alive. I could have died and passed on to another realm, there was no ruling out such craziness. I mean how does one tell the difference between one reality and another? ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ applied to either side of the great divide.
As if through a dissolving filter, I heard the field martens chirping high in the sky above their nests. The wind caressed the cherry blossom. Harmless insects alighted upon my thighs.
It was just another normal day for Mother Nature, right?
