I sleep these days in abstract, short bursts that carry me down country lanes and leave me tangled on barbed wire fences. A sad old yellow moon casts shadows on the road ahead and does much to unsettle cats. I think of home and the miles and days between us and know I shall never return.
At 4:15 I was awoken by bird song and shadows and planets racing by. Sometimes life greets you by handshakes and welcomes and sometimes by indifference. I dress myself regardless and prepare for rain. In an old fallen shelter I light fires, to surround myself with distance and sleepwalk through the night.
They say 'beware the strangers of kindness and think of things unthought' but we believe in moments above such whimsy and visit wrath upon only those who stand in our way. If we are such doomed accomplices it is only through circumstance and loss of way. If these days are important it is only because we are alive. And if the world comes to us untethered and baiting us to fight? We shall make like crows and hide amongst trees.
Some days I feel my life is a river running into waterfalls and crashing to rocks below, but today it is a shrubbery gathered around a sullen pond clammy with frogspawn. I saw Van Gough wrestle Goya in a clearing and Churchill ordering sparrows from his lawn and knew what day it would be and why. 'We are all waiting for trouble 'Churchill shouted ' and trouble shall eat us in the end' I doubt his motivation for such thoughts.