Thanks to a small butter-coloured pill, half of which scarily, soothingly sends me off, I’ve started to sleep a little better. How bland hope can look! Daytime needs rituals and incantation to keep me calm: while my body favours and enforces a level plane, want has fully woken.
Crazily my best hours are before dawn. If I can, I sit in the garden just as light lends the sky a purple hue, so faint it might be imaginary, wished there to spur daytime on. Next the hazel emerges: its ochre foliage throws itself forward – I’d like to stand in its glow. The leaves of the cabbage tree, sharply drawn, hover on the verge of green; for a few moments everything else is bathed in a beautiful, almost liquid anthracite. My thoughts turn to silence and separation, different forms of out-of-sightness, but can I stay in the dark a little longer, please, and listen to the blackbird which brims with jubilant notes? Later, autocorrect doesn’t want to know, changes nightshifts (invisible and poorly paid) to nightshirts and without further ado plonks me down in a 19th century period piece, where no-one, really, no-one, has ideas above their station.
Morning belts out promises day won’t keep. I pretend I don’t know, let want roam, even as gravity pulls.