We are spirits whose love is boundless. We shoot past the stars towards the abyss and into the oblivion without wondering or waking from the dream that we are entangled in, twisting and writhing without a care or a cause. This world is big and we are swimming in it, weightless and full of hope higher than the steep craggy mountain of struggle that lies before us. We wait and wonder, we grow taller, our eyes grew wider, our hands reached for the grass beneath us. We taste the soil and scrape our palms on tree trunks. We crow and croon and shout and stomp. We are born from the bark, we are the children of the forest.
While the light trips fantastic over the Thames, the Southbank simmers. New architecture faces old as two worlds rest beside the placid tide. There are bookshops under bridges, carousels and mimes, the ebb and flow and the low rumble of trains; here is a world of this and that. London’s cacophony of sound and sense winds down for just a moment, and awaits the bustle of night.
Amongst the hushed echos of the Christmas fair, in the crisp cool of winter, the sweet bells of an ancient carousel breathed quiet joy into the souls of all who chose to listen.