I’m put in mind of the waves: this ugly cycle of grim lows and elation, never manic but distressing all the same. The sadness is about trying to push through the mattress, being absorbed by it and swallowed whole, left to the skewering of bed springs and a duvet covering every trace of me as an alibi.
Bah! I hate being stuck in my own company.
I swing my great-coat over my shoulders and step out for breakfast. The cold tries to creep up the layers but body heat prevails. I’m still in mind of the crashing sea though. it’s probably the fresh smack to the face this morning wind brings, a reminder of countless childhood ambles on the Solent shore.
Maybe the motion is reassuring. Familiarity surrounds: The face in the toy shop never changes, the vintage shop is never open, the church is still a chain pub. But the wave, the idea of the wave, is pure revelry in turmoil, something that I find terribly appealing right now.
Destination met, thinking on salt air, I order a bacon sandwich.
© Matthew Sheret