Mid Morning Blues

Eyes full of irritating pus gunk. Slept fitfully waking with crusty eyes. Self prognosis suggests bacterial conjunctivitis. Sun was out this morning but it is hiding a little. So shorts might not be the obvious attire. Quick coffee then a walk. Man having a discussion with the fishmonger in loud voice. So everyone can hear what is being discussed. Politics. Business of the day. Not real. Not real at all. Steven Smith off to do his driving theory test. Was out for a couple early for Jonesy's babies head wetting last night. Everyone in shades of grey, blue or brown. Not a bright contrast of colours except for Lloyd's Nike red and green. Not sure I can do much more of those contrived events. Nice to bump into Simon Handley, though and I am very happy for Mr and Mrs Jones; Westy is weary: he's a baffooning gibbon. I linger. Second coffee. Alerting me: perhaps! No rush today. Louis Armstrong playing his jazz in the coffee shop. Gravel voice. I don't really enjoy Ladyday. That slow jazz hasn't got me. Simon told me I'm ok as I am. He seems truly happy: a plateau of happiness. That is the serenity I desire most. It is because Wetherby has a repetitive streak I see the same disappointingly vague individuals whom discuss a dull life in booming tones. Dylan Thomas, Richard Burton and Terence Stamp. I guess my perfect reflections would be in silence. More is said in silence than in compounded wordiness; my better friend is silent. The world is too loud. Didn't get as far as I intended. Suddenly feeling the effects of a cold. My eyes seem better. So stomped back directly from the backend of the wildflower field prior to Collingham wood. Head cloudy. Quick sit down by the river. Observing health kicking Paul and Amber on the other bank; must be love in sweat. Without alcohol I feel more love for myself. My morning bliss speaks to me away from the occluding booze umbrella. Forget love and what am I? I had to leave to teach myself by learning to listen to my other voice. Alcohol has less hold. I'm frightened I am nothing really. But then I realised nothing really matters. Nothing 'matters'. Not desperate for something or anything. I lack for not seeing what I really needed all these years: nothing. I can feel true. I know it. I've been trying to belong somewhere that is quite insane/unreal. I just want to be and have being. Strange I feel closer to a fundamental truth about reality; I thought I was perhaps crazy? But I'm not. Apple juice kisses away the tears.