light-hearted

"I love to see leaves blowing through the headlights. I don't know why. I mean they're just dead leaves , no good for anything, but I love to see them blowing through the light."

"He crossed the dark hall to the living room where Tony was watching a show. The tube was the only light, shifting and submarine, and with the noise of the rain outside the room seemed like some cavern in the sea."

--John Cheever.

A moral quality to the light: free, independent, clear. Each particular object and person seen as they really are, as a revelation to themselves. The disbandment of hierarchies, the flatlands of the spirit welcomed. The light that holds the moments of a life together, like a memory, and seems true. Remembered off by heart: a face, a city, full of shadows, full of longing. In the clear light of the day we see the pure distances between us, those that were bridged during the darkness of the night and the mind's sleep.

We see eachother at last, with relentless precision, without colour, as a god might see us in fact, each breath, and each detail noted, yet still desirous of a fall...it is as if we had begun with a clean slate, a fresh start, not knowing what to do with the burden of the past. This light, what is it that grows so darkly within?