You Mad, Bro?
Looking back on that question, I realised how much I hated looking back on questions. Now my mind is dragging me back to the provocation of this question, a provocation I daren’t think about. But now I am... Silly, eh? It’s not a long story; in fact, you could say it’s quite a short story. So I guess I should begin. I was speaking to someone about a dream I’d been having. This dream, as dreams go, was not normal - the content was irrelevant. I had dreamt of a colour which I had never seen before, and wanted desperately to see this colour in reality. I am not colour- blind, and this colour was definitely off the spectrum. It simply had never been before. The person I was boring was keen to demean it as a serotonin build-up in the colour processing part of my brain. I disagreed. “Dismissing such phenomena with simplistic empirical explanations does no credit to their meaning.” “There is no meaning to any dream, except what you later apply to it,” he asserted, nodding as if he were right. Sat in the pews of Westminster Cathedral, our voices had echoed off the cavernous walls in silent argument, spiralling and splitting into three halves on the high altar. They can be split into three halves if you think hard enough about the nature of half, and the nature of three. It makes perfect sense for me to describe our voices as splitting into three halves! Reality was reorientating, catalysed by the ancient, Byzantine nature of the building itself, nestled as it is amongst the ugliest modern behemoths in London. London. No one goes to London for Westminster Cathedral. Except me. And maybe you too, in time. Its microclimate entices me - not that I’m Christian or anything. It just provides me with
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