Aurora Mentis Borealis

White light.  Pure radiant white light.  Bright light.  Night light.  Jumping and darting into the darkest shadows of the universe.  White light.  No, that’s not what it’s called.  This is the full spectrum.  So vivid are the colours that dance like a tempting mistress with the darkness.  In the beauty of so fluid a movement is the sinking knowledge of the inevitable submersion to another setting.  The crowning glory to a fading white light plunges daggers of green, an envious edge, red, which comes with two sides-rage and romance, to waning yellow and violet holding onto the slivers in her head dress.  Bright lights give way to pockets of age-old reflections finally finding the eye with the ubiquitous orb dictating their impact.  So powerful is light.  No colour without it.  Only darkness.  It started with light.  Where it all began.  In that first photophobic moment when eyes too young to contract fast enough for the sudden flash of life was born the pain then fear of white light.  Bright light.  Night light.  The last dance is always a waltz as she catches her breath while taking yours away.  Her edge is lost now.  As she fades the swords are thrown down for a mingling of the masses with complimentary results.  Art mirrors life and life imitates, aspires for, art.  This is art.  A moment where the senses are imbued with a passion suggested but ultimately felt beyond what was believed.  It ends with light.  The tunnel.  The light.  White, bright, night light.  It’s a solar flare of the soul bouncing off the subconscious polar cap to be seen only by an open mind’s eye.  Aurora Mentis Borealis.