Morning Fog

6:00 am The bright lights of the city have made way for the muted dawn glow emanating from somewhere beyond the visible sky (clouds). Lazy thunderheads mix with alto and stratus cumulus in a dozy mothers meeting designed to do your head in if you think about the steady light for more than one second of time.

The dreary insomnia filled night has made way for the dreary day. After jaw clenching early morning angst the day in its ‘know it all’ clarity seems coquettish in comparison. Just stare back and it evaporates like mist. If only the nights were so easy and so quiet.

Where the voices come from is a mystery but the inside of my head was like for two hours the cinema, magazine and television and radio turned up to ten and even-handedly evil and dispassionate as it dealt its judgements one after another in quick succession like a conveyor belt of Japanese punishment teams from a Burmese Railway Camp circa WWII.

They left me exhausted and paradoxically wide awake and insanely alert. If an ant had stamped its foot I would have jumped through the ceiling like a firework. In order to regain normal waking (something like being alert and relaxed simultaneously), I returned to the familiar routine of coffee and pacing and eventually something like normal waking returned. After less than I minute, I was putting in an album and typing again.

I can’t think of anything to say except ‘I heart Pink Floyd’ and that’s not saying nothing honest.

 

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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