While lying low for the last few days, fighting off a virus that seems to have been rampaging around anybody and everybody, I’ve come to appreciate those that have reached out.
While it doesn’t seem like much, a few words from a friend on a quiet day can count for rather a lot.
Last night I pushed back against a chest that still refuses to breathe properly, and went out for a drink with a good friend. Early in the evening I wasn’t keen on going, but eventually got over myself. I’m glad I went.
Spending time with those I know and love has become restorative – and yet I’m often the last to arrange or organise. The laughter, smiles, and memory of time spent with friends gets me through difficult days more frequently than I admit.
Music has become a weapon I employ to deconstruct my own walls. Late at night I find escape in so many directions – reading, listening, and sharing confidences singer song-writers only hinted towards.
Midnight has become a great friend.
In the dead of night the world becomes smaller, and begins to make sense. The confusion of the day is washed away as the Sandman takes over. His stories rarely make sense, but I tell myself it’s all about the journey. My journey.