Thoughts of longing accompany my unfocused gaze into the distance. Far away, yet not quite as far as the white interval, where sky and sea meet. A flood of memories consume me, one after another, overpowering me into an unmistakeable state of melancholy. I feel as though I’m in a purgatorial trance, reliving every loss and every pain and every last word I never could say.
The time of day is just before sunset in early April, the chill of winter still thriving in the air and the tumult of tourism are at bay for a little while longer. A few families are visible in the distance, above the Southern band of cliffs, but are unheard from where I stand. I feel alone in solitude, at the mercy of my moody revel. I can’t explain what came over me, besides that I’m sure I’m not the first and I know I’m not the last to feel the euphoric onslaught of the past, here on this land.
Momentous, sovereign and cruel - three words that I would describe the Cliffs of Moher, by first sight. Although, judging by mere eye can not solely describe this powerful landscape. Esoteric and omniscient, perhaps. Ancestral forces may have been at work here today, or maybe it’s just a simple coincidence. Possibly it’s just my time to face what I’ve decisively ignored thus far, deep feelings of perdition with the result of edification.
(Photo by © Brandon Elijah Scott / Eye & Pen)