The Echo of a Childhood Sixty Years Old

Wednesday lunchtime, but it has felt all day like Tuesday. Tuesday has a strange taste about it, like crunchy summer cereal, a field of wheat, or corn, and an impossibly blue sky behind.
Wednesday tastes of rain and gloom. Not necessarily a bad thing. Wednesday is a day spent inside a ground floor room with inadequate lighting, while a heavy Scottish rain falls down outside. From the tiny window grey changeless skies are only interrupted by the branches of one winter-dead tree, branches tapping at the glass. Wednesday tastes of heavy afternoon sleep and the dreams such afternoons inevitably bring (of stairways in cupboards, and songs of remote landings in labyrinthine farmhouses, and clusters of woods, unreachable in the centres of fenced off fields).

Well, I say Wednesday lunchtime, but it is really mid afternoon - nearly 3:00pm. Time is all deranged today.
3:00pm.
A pool in a wood, like something out of January, but a bright and warm January day though.

Flipping back time with the painting I started two days ago too. A reproduction of the cover of a 1950s horror comic 'Worlds of Fear' that I bought from a comic mart seventeen years ago. As I paint, I am taken back into my own past, of poring over printed reproductions of horror comics in magazines and childhood books. Ten years old, and here I am, nearly thirty years later, as fascinated by the arcana of old horror comics as I ever was.
I become absorbed in the painting, and as I try to reproduce this cover, there are echoes of other childhoods, childhoods older than mine, American childhoods. Shadows of  World War 2 and Pearl Harbour, the Korean War, atom age ghosts.
After all, who did once own the comic I am using as Source material? Who was the original owner of 'Worlds of Fear' - number 5 I think. As I smell the attic-ancient pages, I wonder over its journey, from America to here. Must have been bought at some American newsagent, but where, a city, the countryside, -what state did this journey begin with?
Where was it first read, before the pages yellowed, before the colours faded, where it was all new and fresh and exciting?
Coming up for sixty years old now.
Sixty years old.
The very words seem to disorientate time even further.
If the child who originally owned the comic is still alive, he would be an old man now, in his early seventies.
This thought creases my mind.
We age, live, love, fade and die, but as I paint late into the night of my bedsit, only horror comics survive.