Ford

Is all truth in the way things end? Not the first moments, with the gentle look, the tenderness that sets us on our way, with the photographs lovingly slid into the new silver frames, and even the blotches of dazzling light on the discarded over-exposed ones promising so much. The lists, the white ribbons, the music between you. This is how it was. You thought your life could go by unnoticed whilst it accumulated all the time.

Keeping your head down, or your mind pure, or your hands busy. You'd let the years roll over you, as if nothing mattered, as if things could go on for ever, the minor fuck-ups, the missed chances glossed over, the mirrors speckled, the wall clock tilted to an angle, others not even wound up and exhausted.

As the final moment crumbles, revealing what was always there, something you always knew and feared. Behind the mundane, the sheer ordinariness of it all there was a small tale of tragedy and farce working its way to the surface, unraveling, untying, undoing what was barely stitched together. A few moments, that's all it was, like a dark landscape intermittently illuminated by flashes of light, without any rhyme or reason, the contours of well-known objects, a face, an emotion, briefly acknowledged, remembered, for all it's worth, for what it's worth.

"But for sorrow there is no remedy provided by nature; it is often occasioned by accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have lost or changed their existence; it requires what it cannot hope, that the laws of the universe should be repealed; that the dead should return, or the past should be recalled."