The Spinning Room

It looks like the room has turned into a vacuum. Outside in the darkness lamp posts are leaning toward us, beeches are torn off the ground, their roots heavenwards, spiralling faster, reaching the speed of human love.

There are mice flying through the sky, only recently they found their wings, utterly surprised that they could soar in the clouds on these cold moonlit nights, unafraid of owls because all the predators are resting tonight. They are either too tired or too amazed that something like this is happening.

Perhaps the room itself is spinning, it is difficult to tell in the darkness, but there is a multitude of colours swirling around us, all of them different shades of our affection for each other, and for the world, as her body has become the epicentre from which beauty radiates to cover the whole planet. The Earth has become the place where darkness and light are one, perhaps they always were, only I could not see it before now.

There are no shades of grey because it is all beautiful. The rain is falling upwards to meet the clouds and the beyond, it is starting a journey through space, landing on other rooms, other moons. But this is our sanctuary, safe under the duvet, let others find their own, except that all the rooms are really the same, all homes shining with happiness that many are unable to see. It is always there in the cups of tea, at the bottom of jars of blueberry jam, in every sudden touch without demand, in a sprouting dandelion and the face of a highland cow.

Everyone is the centre of this happiness, everyone is the beauty of this moment made flesh, but right now all that matters is that the world spins around us, or we spin around everything, two people clinging to each other like it is the end of time, or the beginning. And this feeling is always the beginning.