I have been awake but six hours and little time passes when I am not aware of the bagpipes being played in a nearby field. Six hours ago I awoke from an unsettling dream that left me in a dark and impatient mood. I drew the blinds and tugged at the window to console myself. The day looked promising: the sky azure and bright. I then heard the haunting drones of bagpipes wafting up into my bedroom. A strange beginning, I thought. I found some clothes and stepped out into a cold summer's day. The air was crisp and potent. I walked back inside and resolved to begin the day anew. I put myself to work. In an hour I had cleaned the place some and showered. The space from then until now was filled with reading: in that space I finished Cold Mountain.
And here I sit, my mind still wading through the tragic beauties of a story where pain is depicted, remedied and discussed in careful detail. I become aware of the enigmatic relationship between pleasure and pain: “just recollecting pleasures long ago is pain enough,” admits one character.
It seems that the manner in which a story ends changes the pleasure one encounters along the way; and yet, I remember the comforting irony that stories never end; they only seem to end. The pangs of finality dim, become overshadowed by the rising of seemingly “new” stories, only to slowly explode into an expansive sunset, layered in both colour and tone.