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TOdAy I NoTiCeD

Day One

Today I noticed that my moods can vary greatly, and the mood in which I wake, doesn't have to be the mood in which I go to sleep. I also noticed that a day's success can be measured by what I don't achieve, but that's looking at the glass half-empty, and I really want to think of the glass half-full, and revel in those things that I do achieve. Going back to the moods, the clouds can be like those moods too, for they can scuttle over the landscape, bringing darkness and shade to the asphalt that had been bathing in the hot stirling heat of the sun. And so time itself is a variant of moods, objects moving, the world sat up in a complicated riddle, and only the ongoing and unfolding nature of time allows for those riddles to unspool like a ball of blue cotton. Time is a ball of cotton then, teasing us between the gaping void that sits bang in the middle of the past and present, and so perhaps I can deduce it even further and say that time is simply blue, like the sky above.

Day Two

Today I noticed how little there is to notice when you spend your time in the same places. For example, work can sometimes get stale, visiting the same places, driving and turning at the same signs, to end up at the same familiar destinations as before. Sometime I guess we are pleased to find familiarity in life, but at times the familiar is rotten like an egg, and the smell is all around it. I wonder if our souls can grow weeds, and if so I'm sure they can root us to the ground and eventually pull us closer to the Earth, so that we don't get any ideas about flying. I think I need to find something that is the equivalent of a pair of shears, with which I can cut those metaphorical weeds and feel more free. Writing this is a little like freedom, and I'm fighting not to think too logically about what is spilling from my brain, or worry what anyone reading this will think. Will they think my thoughts are too dark, or not dark enough?

But I need to get away from those thoughts, and instead let the day's events shuffle through my mind. I'm trying to think what stands out most of all, but it's all just a blur right now. Memories often weave together and I guess right now I'm noticing that memories are very rarely played back smoothly like we see on television, but instead they are like a series of single images rushing by with only familiar faces standing out.

Day Three

Today I noticed an elderly lady and watched as she walked nimbly and hesitatingly along the street. I thought about helping her along, but then realised I couldn't help her with her ageing and brittle bones. And then perhaps she might be a strongly independent lady and my offering a hand to help her might have offended her, yet by doing nothing at all might make me fit into the profile of an uncaring youth, so I said hello, smiled and then saw the inependence in her gaze. She was perhaps made a little happier by my greeting, but then the solemn lines of her face soon snapped back to their natural state, one of sorrow, or perhaps it was just today that a particular sorrow had landed within her life, but her wilting frame and deep sunken eyes made me think about ageing, and how time is swallowed up so quickly, as if we carry a black hole around with us, sucking all the light from our present, giving our time back to be recycled by some white bearded gods. Perhaps ageing is a flaw in our genes, but I'm not convinced of that.

The young grow away from the earth, like flowers heading for the sun, but as we age, like flowers, we begin to wilt back towards the earth, a fitting fall from the light, back into darkness. We sleep throughout our lives in order to prosper in our waking hours, so perhaps death is merely the sleep we must have in order to prosper in the hereafter. And perhaps ageing is what helps us accept that we are not fit to live in this world indefinitely, for all our bones must grow brittle and old, and all our flowers must eventually fall to the earth.

Day Four

Today I noticed that dreams can suddenly bite you and haunt you at the strangest times. Whether preparing dinner or just reading a book, like a revelation out of the blue, things from dreams fall into my lap all of a sudden, like today. And so I'd like to tell you about a dream I had recently that was surreal and absurd, as dreams tend to be. I was driving along, in a car with big wheels if I remember correctly, and along the road there were massive piles of hen feathers that acted as chicanes, and I was desperately and nervously trying to avoid these harmless piles of feathers, because in the back of my mind I was thinking, what if there are hens beneath the feathers, if there are my wheels will surely kill them. And that's when I started actually going out of control and started ploughing through the feathers, not knowing if I was killing any hens or not. Then I heard commentary, like tv commentary, and I was going down some public stairs in a car, knocking over people, and the commentary was of a newscaster, telling the public about a mad man running over people with his car. That was a strange dream to say the least, and I wonder if in fact we can be sane in our lives, only if we are insane in our dreams?

A strange thought indeed, but one inspired by how today my dream, not the one above, but a dream nonetheless, suddenly jumped into my concious mind as if my subconcious were suddenly feeding me the insanity of my dreams.

Day Five 

Today I noticed how many books I have and that I don't have enough bookmarks for each one, and what it might be like to read a page of each in rotation, sipping authors words like coffee, being caffeinated by the sheer joy of literature and knowledge and the ability of words to transform us. And also that I like to stand back and look at the spines, noting those with more wrinkled ones and knowing they are my favourites. Well read books are like old friends, but just like real friends, they are different as the years go by, their appearance may not always change, just as the book covers remain the same, perhaps only a little faded, but over the years friends change, like books, and our perception of them will change too. But I guess books are different that way, they don't actively change, save for a little yellowing around the page edges, but no it is us that changes, and so the analogy falls down in that regard. But I still like to look at the shelves full of books, and wish there were more spaces left to fill, instead of a bulging mess, where I have taken to sitting books horizontally just for the extra space.

Then I think about ebooks, and how wonderful it is that they don't take up any space, apart from the space in data form, but you can never stand back and see your friends quite the same way, for one thing ebooks never age or fade or dull over time, for time itself stops for them. Time doesn't change them at all, only our perceptions of the words they contain. But no I don't think I could ever truly be without physical books, for they journey through life like old friends.

Day Six

Today I noticed the quiet just before the crack of dawn. Everything was still and silent as usual, but today I really took note. Even the houses seemed so still and empty, even though I'm sure there were sleeping bodies inside, wrapped up in their warm beds, while I had to scrape the icy frost off my windscreen before I could get inside and and be warmed by the heater turned up full blast. Then I noticed the stars in the sky once the windscreen had cleared, and the moon so still and big as if a hole has been torn in the fabric of space. And the stars almost looked alive, so defined and present, among the stillness, that it almost took my breath away. And then I moved off. Selected first gear, second, third, negotiated the corner, then thought a little about the day ahead, slowed down for the potholes in the road that were planted in my mind like the back of my hand. Then again I glimpsed the moon, and almost felt the majesty and wonder of how isolated its surface must be, how cold and desolate it would feel to be up there, but I knew so well I was on Earth, caught up in the hubble and bubble of busy lives, human lives, creative lives, bored lives, depressed lives.

I could almost sense my body beginning to open up to the world from its sleep, but my mind was almost left behind, and I thanked god I knew where the potholes were, and thanked god there was no one else around on the road. For a second I wondered what it might be like if no one ever woke up again. A common thought perhaps, but I wondered what I would do if the Earth was as empty of people as the surface of the moon.

This morning it felt like I was the last man on Earth, shuffling through the cold quiet of morning.

Day Seven 

Today I noticed how time can slip away, and that I believe time is going slower than it really is. Not time enough to stop. I think we never take the time to just stop what we're doing and listen to the gentle clicking of time as it passes, and be in the moment. To feel the cogs as they turn, feel the vibration of the Earth, to think of all the people living in that very same moment. To think of those in hardship, to pit them against those in luxury, and wonder which soul will win out, which soul will be wise in the afterlife, but I digress. What I really wanted to say, was how I don't often enough stop and listen to the world turning. Yet I'm happy to while away the hours, pretending to be busy at times, when all I'm doing is procrastinating. In those moments, perhaps I should just admit defeat, and stop doing anything at all. Start meditating again, to try and find that inner calm and balance, to delve beneath the surface of what is, to find the rivers that flow and make sure those waters run clear. So much pollution in the air, but it doesn't have to pollute our thoughts and dirty our minds. I think I will rest on an imaginary cloud every now and then, feel the cool breeze on my face, be aware of the deep oceans below, of the desert lands praying for rain, of the forest greens waiting for the next downpour, until I fall, through the rain onto leaves. Like an insect let me flood to the ground and be nothing, to think about nothing at all, to just be free, to just exist... no more.

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