go_gentle_in_this_dark_dark_night past dark begins in light, stretching slowly across the field from the stand of deciduous trees in full bloom. we tire ourselves in the game, at once oblivious to the outside world and centred into it. exertion mingling with the earth that comforts our falls, focus rising above and into the grass of the pitch and the ball that we force across it. standing on the side lines, yelling advice, cheering, chatting, laughing, and catching quick drinks and bites of fruit the senses mingle differently. the pitch rises out of the intense singularity that it holds when i run among the other sweating adults and is refracted against the yellows and oranges and reds of the sunset as the colours splay themselves against the clouds, bringing a sharp, but comforting, relief to the dusk sky, in deep contrast to the unending assaults of the mosquitoes. both sensations, the awe and beauty, and the meaningless pain, are lost amid the running and positioning and kicking on the field, but are held out in their fullest on the exhausted sideline. the sun sets, and the darkness rises out of river behind. park lights shiver on the western shore, and the car slides north back into the city core. it's a different night, a different darkness, one of the soft side streets, a mangle of one-way avenues, where the only light yhat falls is from porches, houses, the odd car, and the meek moon and stars above. as much as the previous transition inverted and exploded the senses, depending on where i stood, here it fades back in, collapsing into music pumped into my ears. privately pulling me out of myself into another place, a soft female voice singing nonsense and humming to the folk guitar. in the unaware space between the projected mind and the grounded body unthought thoughts spring and multiple. a drawing, of sorts, from the well of creativities, of confidences, and of certain failures. there are only so many chances, so much time that can pass, and the small hints of something seem like teases extending the life, almost cruelly, of a potentially ill-fated half-dream. that that dream can still live, tucked in, away, between, gives it hope. but what hope? and what dream? and what acts, by whom, to draw them out, back down to the physical and to the perceived? gently, now, in this dark, dark night. 090615 ... PeeT brilliant 130114 ... past i don't even remember writing this, but i still deeply love adult rec soccer and my city very very much. 130114 what's it to you? who go blather from