Coldwater Morning

He stared and stared. Squinting at a dazed new day. He wasn't quite sure where he was. The air smelt good. Like freshly churned butter.

His breath was regular, unfettered. His skin tingled with a sense of wonder. Had it been sleeping this long? What was he missing? The throbbing nerves in his temples? Why were they suddenly so still, like butterflies long flown -
and you wondered, had they ever really been there?

He recognised the strains of a fugue playing in his head- how long since his fingers were alive and making music? Seemed easy enough then, and again... today. Yes he would. After a hearty eggs and bacon fill. Curl up on the window ledge with the Sunday Philosophy Club that had been lying invitingly untouched for months. It seemed like the right time. He may even fish out his old sketchbook and a bunch of crayons and laugh at his scribbled attempts at turning his heart inside out.

Laugh? Wow!

Just the thought made him shake his head in sheer amazement. He smiled self consciously at the imaginary bird on the steadfast tree outside and ambled over to the front door to pick up the newspaper.It wasn't there. Pity. Just when he'd actually looked forward to reading it rather than moon through BBC world while switching channels in half baked hysteria on the much maddening tv set.

Yes he would enjoy the quiet for a bit. The deadening dullness of daily dark thoughts seemed to have gone into hiding, and his mind felt empty and crisp. Waiting for lush new fodder - but not quite hungry yet.

Had someone worked a spell on him? It wasn't the pills. That felt different. His steps were slow and steady. Fetching tea and sipping it gently from a steaming blue cup, he realised he hadn't even bothered to log on to email, as was the inevitably obsessive ritual everyday when his eyes opened, over that first cigarette.

The tea actually tasted better without the smoke. Or perhaps it was just the change and his unclogged nostrils. He leaned back on the couch sniffing the air to detect a difference, glanced at the doorknob which he seemed to notice for the first time - stretched lazily and tapped and rubbed the soles of his feet on the cool cracked leather- puzzled and pleased. What was that old joke about the dog and the bone? Whoever said the dog couldn't be happy without? He would write a better one. A whole book perhaps. Or maybe a song?

This was getting more and more intrigueing. He would make this a day to remember. Hold on to it while it lasts and make it special. Wear his favourite purple lambswool jumper-pretend it was his favourite time of year, put up a few postcards and pop some rich dark ale and listen to a game on radio. No TV today. He grinned excitedly at the thought again.

It was time.

He looked out across the horizon. There was not a speck of darkness. Nor light. No.

But yes, it was morning


Is this the real life-
Is this just fantasy-
Caught in a landslide-
No escape from reality-
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see-
Im just a poor boy,i need no sympathy-
Because Im easy come,easy go,
A little high,little low,
Anyway the wind blows,doesnt really matter to me,
To me

(Freddie Mercury- A Bohemian Rhapsody)