Woken, not too early but also too early, argumentative child clashing with dark, interrupted dreams. Kettle on, coffee on, clothes on. Escaping, I sit uneasily on the stone step at the bottom of the garden, before floating with my cup to the top of the view.
There, I saw the birds flying in their pairs, the berries growing, the bindweed ripening. I looked up and gazed into the moon, gibbous and waning like me.
The moon reached down. "Maybe there is hope," she said. I knew what she meant, smiled inside. Hope is there, around us. We're being ground down like humans, the inverse of being fattened up, but still managed like cattle. Hope is here, at our feet. We have forgotten to look down, perhaps.
Hope is punk, punk is hope. The spread of weeds that lay around me, paused in the fresher autumn air, was proof of hope and growth and change and relentless future. On nature's side, an emergence that sits in chaos, that batters against the barricades trying to preserve us. Wabi sabi vs brutalism. Lao Tzu vs Bentham.
Coffee finished, I sucked in plenty of air and headed back down the hill.