There are 113 books on the shelves in my bedroom, I counted them in time with the beating of my heart;
113 books and one vinyl LP (Debbie Harry, bought because I loved the sleeve) and assorted detritus accumulated I don’t know when.
24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year and 5 tablets swallowed in the morning and 3 at night and the endless crawl of seconds in between.
Restless legs and racing thoughts and battered hardbacks of nursery rhymes from my childhood; yellowing pages with torn edges and rhyming couplets bring propped up by a pile of CDs that have been undisturbed for years. Green Day and Little Miss Muffet, cradling between them a whole world, a whole life.
None of these words mean anything by the way, because there’s nothing to say at 5:32am. It’s when the birds get their turn to fill the air with their chatter and song and life before we all wake up and take over and drown them out. Poor buggers.
I’ve got Things To Do today so my as yet relatively undisturbed hiatus to my bed has got to come to an end. Hair to wash and brush and one foot to place in front of the other until I can turn around and back to my little nest of sanctuary.
Except it isn’t, not really. But it’ll do.
I feel strangely exposed leaving words here again. I think I’d be more comfortable sellotaping up a risqué photo because it would feel a far less fucking revealing.
I don’t like these depressive bits. I’m ready for this one to be over now.