![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() That world beneath us exists, is real, and we are protected from it by a skin that we walk upon every moment, unknowingly stepping over things we cannot hope to understand, intelligences and lusts and desires that are as alien to us as the emotions of bees or the love of snakes. I have heard it described as Hell, this other place, and I used to think that this was nothing more than a metaphor for human frailty, a kind of poetry to make sense of the world, but I know now that it is not. There is another world below this one, a world inhabited by ghosts and demons and all the things that we have lost that we should not find again. ![]() I only have to watch Ben to understand that, to watch the way that, every few minutes, he stops playing and looks towards the garden gate, looks beyond it at something I cannot see, and I am reminded of the truth of these words. Sitting here in the bright sunlight, in my garden, watching my son play in his paddling pool, it seems beyond madness, not even an insanity but a preposterousness, a thing of fantasy, but it is not. Christ, it seems like madness, now I come to write it. You’re not any more likely to believe me than anyone else, I don’t suppose, but you’re my dad and I love you and I want you to know what’s happening and I know I can trust you. I’m sorry for writing to you like this, that I couldn’t ring, but I don’t know what else to do. Scale Hall – illustration by Robert Elrod – click image to enlarge ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |