The Passing Gate

When moonlight illuminates clouds like fresh snow, it is like seeing a ghost. The juxtaposition of their colossal stature and soundless passing is startling, yet nobody looks up. They hang there like silent reminders, occasionally leaving only to return another night.

Christian characterizations of heaven in the clouds and pop culture’s association between death and night left the child I was with the impression of nocturnal clouds as both quietly patient and maliciously hungry.

The figure in The Passing Gate hesitates on the threshold of a decision, looking back at the viewer, torn with uncertainty. She is suffering, and before her lies the deceitful promise of peace. She is too close and you are too far to reach her, and your imminent failure is out of your hands.