Lying here at 3am, agitated and tearful, thinking I may as well get up and start up my work laptop in my nightclothes and put my headphones on, sit in front of a bright screen in a dark cold room, ready for action. It’s exhausting and relentless and a perfectly chilled and relaxing weekend counts for nothing. A week’s holiday doesn’t cut any ice. There doesn’t seem to be any way of making it stop.
My body feels wrecked and aching but has hardly done anything.
Everything fells unsettling, the house situation isn’t helping.
In the end I just want a shed in the middle of nowhere. As long as it’s mine and I can rest.
The death of Prince Philip has felt sad too. Unsettling again somehow. That break in continuity, regardless of the arcaneness of it all. He, they, remind me so much of mum and dad in many ways. The era they represent, the duty, the devotion, longevity...with each of those words having the scope to be mined endlessly for their layers and seams and veins of complexity.
And the agitation of loss as always.
Right, let’s see if I can get a bit of sleep before it starts all over again.