20-1-2022: Day 224
Today was an ‘ice’ day, registering high on the sliding scale of love, life, and humanity. It was all good in the hood. In the Ice Cube golden vein of hip-hop – it was a ‘good day’. Things were falling into place, as I sipped on an above par flat white in the Tom Foolery coffee shop, on the busy high street, as the trail of footsloggers pounded the pavements outside. I was listening to the grinding of coffee beans, ‘Moving on Up’ on the in-house speakers, thinking about creative project irons in the fire.
‘Fire’ is the counter-weight element to ‘ice’ on the sliding scale of love, life, and humanity. A ‘fire’ day is a savage day in hell for the recovering Voice hearer, I reflected draining my bitter coffee dregs.
I was thinking of my Hearing Voices group, which is like Alcohol Anonymous for long suffering folk with off-the-cuff psychiatric diagnoses, dosed up on Big Pharma meds, and abandoned at the grubby fringes of society. And I wondered when my next baptism of fire would flare-up.
21-1-2022: Day 225
The sea was calm, with a surface like rippling glass. Bird’s eye vision was clear all the way out to the miniature wind farms on the distant horizon. Running along the seafront I had a physical target in mind – to break the 5km glass ceiling of my previous runs – and I was a man on a mission.
The mission was to hit the sailing club on the well-beaten trail to Worthing. Weaving a path between impatient cyclists, buggy pushing mums and fellow flushed-faced joggers, I smashed the glass roof.
After the run, sipping down a middle-of-the-road flat white with fellow runners, we were conversing about marathon plans, health ailments and Hornby train collections. I took a moment to wonder at my rapido recovery from Virus lung, on the rocky journey from battered couch to 5km, and gave myself an imaginary pat on my own sweaty shoulder.
24-1-2022: Day 228
I had my seafaring legs on. Again, miraculously, for the second time in three days. Running along the seafront, past the Wild Sauna beach hut. Tunes on. Thinking of a master plan.
I was distracted, my soul pulled out to the ocean, wondering at its vastness, depth, and hidden mysteries.
I was trying to outrun my traumatic past life, with one eye on future dreams, desires, and daylight robbery. I was also busy manifesting a future free of the rusty chains of Big Pharma drug addiction.
And, I was running through the library of my mind, of old stories, mythology, and legends of seafaring history. The ocean holds a spell over my soul mood, shape and bearing, and I am lucky enough to live by its watery fringes.
I thought of Moses and his biblical showstopper – parting the Red Sea for the Israelites. I thought of Moby Dick – a story of sickness and revenge on the high seas – with a colossal killer whale in situ.
And I puffed and panted my way back to the car park at Wide Water.