24. Sunday.

I’m listening to The Archers, about a month behind.  The current episodes were recorded before it all went wrong in the world, and so have an artificially bright and happy feel, even with a well constructed DISASTER storyline to keep us all GRIPPED.  It seems like a distant time from the past now, in spite of only being a month ago.  It’s like a Noel Coward/David Lean production.  Tight.  Clipped.  Every line serves a purpose, helps the story along, justifies its place on the page, gives value.

Different news, speculation and rumour propagating from different sources is damaging, I can feel it wearing me down.  It becomes a constant daily task to remain up to date, and to ensure nothing is missed.  When contradictions or new strands appear they set off a chain reaction of doubt, confusion and panic.  I don’t feel able to say much about anything with certainty at the moment.

I want to do entirely different things.  Be somewhere else.  Draw, paint, photograph, cycle, write.  I want to drink every day.  I can.  When I go out, though, the immediate grey surroundings here are a psychological barrier to enjoyment and beauty, at the beginning and end of every dérive, a grey soulless punctuation.  A portal to a different sphere of thoughts, then back again.

Perhaps if we exist just for ourselves in our minds we’ll be happier.  Stop trying to impress others.  Some already do this to an extent.  We probably should all do it more.  We do need interaction and validation of efforts and self-worth though.  That’s the danger, we won’t notice the absence of those until it is quite far absent.

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