From the recording The Anatomy of Melancholy
Phantasy – Emily Stewart
Imagine you are standing at specific spot, let’s call that point A. You begin to walk. You pass a house, and a park, and you keep walking. You go up a set of stairs, you walk over a bridge, and through a busy street. Suddenly you find yourself back at point A. You know it is the same place because you recognise a glove that fell out of your pocket. You pick it up and keep walking and you pass the house again. This time you look at it more carefully. There’s a puddle next to the front door. You keep walking, slower to make sure it is the same park, the same set of stairs. The bridge seems oddly familiar, you’re sure you’ve seen it before. By the time you reach the busy street the air is hot and humid. You walk on, and you arrive at the beginning again. You don’t stop but hurry on to the house and notice the puddle has disappeared. You bring it back to life in your mind, and it starts to rain. Someone has left a newspaper on a bench in the park. Water is cascading down the stairs as you run up and get to the bridge. The rain slowly stops, and your wet clothes cling to your skin while you push your way through the street. When returning to point A you put your hand in your pocket and make sure the glove is still there. There are many puddles in front of the house now, each one reflecting the blue walls like a thousand glimpses of sky. The newspaper is now just a handful of pages bleeding ink onto the pavement. And you keep walking. Up the stairs, and over the bridge, and back into the street. Going around in circles, in cycles, in motions, comparing that what is with that what was. Such is the character of memories.