Once upon a time...

that's a view from my bedroom window. and it's autumn. the skies are a perfect blue with not a single fluffy white cloud. golden sunlight spills generously over the top of the neighbouring roof top and the nearby tree.

it's said to be the warmest autumn we have ever had in london. i don't know about warm but it is most certainly beautiful. we have had quite a number of days such as this in this week and i've only had the pleasure of enjoying one out. mostly i look at them through the scratchy glass of my window. in fact this very much reminds me of a story about this guy called olly. olly is in his mid twenties and comes from a somewhat warped family. his parents never got along but came from the generation where old habits are hard to die. in this case, their marriage obligation was far more important than their mutual happiness and satisfaction.

from my window, i observe the changes in seasons. now the leaves are all crinkly and crisp but in the summer, they are a bouquet of green. which is rather handy, hiding me from the view of the neighbours. they all fall away in the winter, leaving the tree bare and dead and this simply means i have to change with my blinds down. the other magical moment happens with the first, fresh greens, shooting their vibrancy into the world that is starting to warm up from the bitter cold. but i digress...

anyway, this guy olly, it's a story about him. one of the x generation caught in between now and here, thus peaking at a time called nowhere, finds little interest in his waking world and even less so in the realm of dreams. he is constantly bombarded by the current form of media and advertising which has taken on a more individualistic and godly form and this is a constant assault which he no longer responds to. much similar to his lack of passion in patriotism and religion. his world is dead to him and he to them.

olly has a brilliant education and a bright mind. he has what society would term, 'a bright future ahead of him', if only he had been born normal. for society believes success in status and material wealth to be normal. but olly has shun all of that. success usually ment giving ones identity wholly and sacrificially to the god of corporate identity and olly barely knows who he is. he was once nearly sucked into this altar furnace and once held a prestigious job, but that's another story for another time.

living in his brothers basement, olly spends his time crafting and cleaning the muck that has plastered his individual being. foreign threads that have cunningly woven into his fabric core. the only natural light comes from a tiny, arched window high on the edge of his basement ceiling. three grills mar the view but that matters not, for olly has tacked over it a piece of brown paper.

olly sits in this cold room and contemplates what, i cannot say, for his mind is not an easy one to delve into. but several years pass like this and olly, once a healthy tanned and toned young man soon fades into a white-washed, scrawny lad.

time has not only left his mark on olly, through the winters and summers, it had worn the thin, brown paper covering the window down. and then one autumns day, much like the one in the picture, a strong wind finally bursts its way through.

the sudden rustle causes olly to look up from his looking in and his pale eyes were suddenly greeted with the most perfect, vibrant blue. and as the delicious golden sun moved over the roof top and the crown of the tree, his heart soared upward, resting in beauty where no man had ever been.

and that's my story.

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