I’m Not That Into It Today

I’m tired. After a drive from Cardiff to Kent yesterday I found myself trying to sleep with the pooch restless in the bedroom, padding about, trying to get into bed… Note to self… Must train he dog! Must sleep better tonight!

And when you’re tired the external lacks lustre. Words become wooden, the sky leaden, sounds lumpen . Legs move only by great effort of will and fingers punch the keyboard in an arbitrary and imprecise manner, spelling out the simplest of sentence structures, the easiest of thought patterns, but tripping over those longer more complicated streams of consciousness.

And the internal feels painful, jagged and irritable, often mournful. There’s that hangover style simmering melancholia filtering the day. And the day’s lense is not brightly lit, not sharply shining with waxy lemon but, of course, lit, if lit it can be, with grey day clouds smearing the view.

I’m tired of Covid and the idiocy of it all, I’m tired of Brexit and of the United States and of Donald Trump and Antifa. Today I’ve reached peak politics. I need some time.

But, what a news day… Thoughts of increased lockdown restrictions, impeachment, stocks, purges…

The news will never end. It’s in it’s nature. Each moment is new. Is news. It’s dead but oh so very much alive. It’s a picture and a story and then it’s gone. It’s a picture and a story, and, then it’s gone…

And that’s what we’ve become. A few pictures, a few stories. And then we’re gone…