Morning light failed to hit us once again.
Afternoon comes too soon,
So what’s the point of rising from this nest of rest?
A collage of night surrounds our hollow shells,
And bottled water keeps us in tune with our senses.
A dreamlike state,
I’m only half aware of my oyster pearl lying there
On my right-hand side.
Sliding down a path that’s dangerously sloped,
Bumping into thorny bushes and vicious country nettles.
I lay there bleeding, bruised and somewhat weary,
But my peace of mind lives on,
Smiling without query
For some morning light.
The above words have been on my mind this morning, I guess it would be rude to not at least try to work out why. How old I was when I wrote those words is not known. I was probably in my late teens.
I think it is about waking up in the afternoon and wishing to be the child who loved to get up early in the morning, ready to get mildly injured in the throes of a great adventure.
The words became lyrics to one of the first songs I lamely strummed on a relatively tuned acoustic guitar, in my bedroom while a cassette recorder, with a built-in microphone, struggled to tinnily record the pained sounds that were being produced.
I dread to think what my family thought of me when I spent hours in seclusion in my bedroom of our detached home, with my guitar surrounded by often hard to decipher scribbles on crumpled pieces of scrap paper.
I was often ordered by my father to keep the noise down, and I always did my best to not disturb anybody.
Interestingly, in my mid-twenties, my father started giving me Bob Dylan, Leadbelly, Slim Whitman and Bessie Smith CDs. I paid no mind as to why at the time, but think I’m beginning to understand.
Any time I have tried to write a song it has rarely, probably never, worked out very well. I am not a musician. I am someone who loves to write words and to express them by singing rather than talking.
I write. I then walk away from what was written.
Occasionally I will find some forgotten words I’ve written down on a piece of paper, and start strumming a combination of simple chords, and usually, after a few minutes, I am singing like a chain-smoking fallen angel.
The combination of singing the words like this the first few times causes my eyes to fill up with small pools of salty water. I convinced myself once that this process was to drain the excess Lithium Carbonate from my brain.
Nowadays I occasionally come across a very old scrap of paper with some words on it, and can instantly tell I once authored the words by the mixture of dried up tear water and ink smudges.
There are no tear stains on anything I’ve written in the last two years. This is because virtually all of my words have been written via a computer or mobile phone.
It is probably time to start writing with ink on paper again, to strum the rust off my guitar strings and to sing without disturbing Emily, Jack the wonder dog and my neighbours, in the makeshift study area on the detached side of our semi-detached rented abode.