When evening comes

They come in completely bushed at the end of the long working day; office politics or the classroom jungle, a commute in heavy traffic, body and mind stretched beyond, just tired tired tired.

And they switch the telly on, collapse in the armchair and fall fast asleep. “Fall asleep in front of the telly,” they say. In front of the telly.  What?

Television is meant to be for information and communication, entertainment and stimulus; connection. Fall asleep in front of the telly? What’s with that?

I think there’s a hunger for sound and images without meaning – with no message or content. There’s a comfort in the general burbling and murmur of its voice, the light and flicker of its images.

They’re sitting by the fire, really, aren’t they? That’s what the primitive soul of them wanted. To sit by the ocean and hear the whisper and thunder, the boom and hush of its voice, see the waves form and disperse and the light dancing on the water.

To sit quietly as darkness falls, and watch the last light of the sun reflect against the clouds.

They wanted the komorebi – the interplay of light through leaves, the soughing of the wind in the tall trees, the careless occasional song of woodland birds.

The ancient heart of humanity wants the flicker of flames, changeable, fascinating and restful at the same time, comforting and fragrant, a glow you can look into and never tire of it, the sound of burning wood and settling embers.

The eternal soul of humanity didn’t mean TV, for the end of the day. It meant this.