Yesterday was a day of lost ideas again. Words running through my head and veins so constantly they lose their way somewhere. I did write a poem onto paper though, in what in my time was yesterday, but in the clock’s time was today. A poem full of full stops and lines of single words. I didn’t get to bed till 2:45. Parental duties, gladly fulfilled.
There were gutters and wood creaking in the sun yesterday afternoon, and blinding pain down the right side of my face where the teeth and gums have settled into a routine of nuisance while I wait (and hope) for the meds work..
On my way to the football on Wednesday night, I had to cut across Mousehold Heath because I’d forgotten part of the pavement was closed. I thought navigating through the gloom would be easy, but, in the reality of a February night, one tree looked much like another, one path felt much like another stumble in the wrong direction. Mysterious yellow lights and sounds off to my right spooked me a bit, and my feet sounded really loud on the ground. In the end, I gave up and used the torch on my phone to find my way back through the undergrowth and back to trees and tree stumps I recognised. And made the shortcut shorter than usual. To make it back onto the pavement under the streetlights seemed some sort of relief.
As I was changing into my walking/running gear mid-morning, I pondered the wisdom of these public journals. Are they more hindrance than help? Are these words just wormholes back into severe depression rather than a creative spur? Do they make me too self-obsessed? I know I said they allowed me to look at myself at one remove, but sometimes it doesn’t exactly feel like that. Sometimes it feels like I’m just talking for the sake of talking, becoming too self-centred, making it even ore difficult for myself to compartmentalise, because it is this, this scribbling in legible fonts, that bursts the dam and lets those words run amok throughout my being without actually giving me a tool with which to constantly harvest them. And then I think it’s better to have an uncontrollable flood of words, and the realisation that comes with it, that I am human, that I am normal, rather than live in a world where either no words come or the words are locked away so deeply that, at some time or another, they will make my brain physically explode into the smithereens of irredeemable senility or insanity.
The sun is shining. I have a frozen shoulder. I didn’t get up till 8. I have radio to do. I have work to do. I have music. Friday is the new Monday. For those who know me, it’s always been like that. After all, there’s no peace for the wicked.