Colours

Fantasy in varying degrees, planning its assault on certain reality. Fantasy in the place of magic, feeding emotions, strengthening the eyes of wonder. The dream lies asleep, it has tired and is old, it will soon become, no more. Memory doesn't tend to recall fantasy so much, it deals much more in the real, and often in the negatives, the disappointments, perhaps memory can look like it is in a morbid place. Its Sunday and the Horse Protestants are remembering the British war dead in their Irish home. Some wear Poppies and pray for the souls of their martyrs. And I think of unity and understanding and that is about as far as I can get. Neon visions appear, they scream out their expressions. They suggest, and they imply, and they fire. And then they are gone, but for in the memory, and this is where it all begins. In the mind the memory of colours translates to words and music and other art. Screaming colours engage again, they seem to choose who they wish to cling to, they will not evaporate, they will live and dwell.