Pushchair

I found it in the road. A gold horse, though more like brass. It looks welded. It was a bright thing, a shiny thing. A compensation for the lowness of yesterday morning. All that standing. The tiring-ness of it, of being in a musty dusty bookshop, jaded. It doesn’t feel right anymore, much of it. My body doesn’t, my mind doesn’t, it’s all out of sorts. And now my skin is tight, as if it’s being pulled stretched taut across the whole of my body. I must just go with what is happening, acquiesce, watch, observe and learn, if I can.

A day at home, please. To work. To concentrate and then rest. And food too, I no longer know what to eat.

It had been forgotten. A pushchair. A good one, clean, and neat. It was just by the old phone box at the top of South Marine Terrace. Surely it hasn’t been left? Surely it will be missed.

The man I see working on his computer in his living room cum study cum kitchen in the ground floor flat along Mill Road was at work again this morning. He sits staring intently at the screen, his blind slightly open to the night. What does he work on at this time? Can’t he sleep?

The TED talk was about the difference between joy and happiness, the speaker felt that happiness was internal, self-led and joy was something one shared, one felt with the whole of humanity. An interest thought. Certainly joy is more whole, more complete. We need more, please. Can it be self-driven? Possibly.

He didn’t get back to sleep after waking for a wee. Poor love. He gets so down-hearted. I am a little today too, though I didn’t tell him. It’s the hurting. I must raise myself. There is no time for the doldrums.

The sea was a mill pond. And the moon but half. Enough though to light my way a little.

She said yes to one and no to the other. Heigh ho. It wasn’t a closed door though.

I must just wait. The work will come through. As will the beauty. Just give it time.