Dead Time

"And the puddles reflect the sky in the morning, and the pavements lead to another place. With one ear to the west and an ocean beside me, I swear if you listen you might just hear our song."

A nothing day, the highlight of which was walking home down Witches Alley, which was (obviously) the inspiration for Witches Path in Lanterns And Shades. Autumn is stripping the trees of their leaves, and this particular section of my post-work walk is starting to look almost as sinister as the fictions I've built around it. In the hands of my favourite season, Witches Alley is a dark, cold, and isolated place. Though both ends lead out onto busy roads, civilisation is hidden away from the walker by screens of tree and fence. At midnight, the traffic is silent, the air is cold, and the illusion is complete. When the only sounds are your footsteps, even the breeze dragging errant leaves along the path can be enough to make your heart beat a little faster, to have you looking over your shoulder in defiance of all that is rational, if only to be absolutely sure that some creature from beneath the bed of childhood isn't creeping stealthily up behind, ready to lay a clammy, clawed hand on your shoulder.

I felt pretty good tonight, though. Between Jennifer and insomnia, I got very little sleep last night, and I staggered through work like a zombie. By ten o'clock, my apathy and sluggishness was so obvious that when I mentioned the possibility of being let go early, the duty manager was almost enthusiastic. Before I left, though, I partook in some of the many drinks I've been bought over the last few weeks in the form of a can of Red Bull, a pint of Carling, and a very large JD and Coke. These I drank quickly, one after the other, leaving my empties on the bar and then staggering out into the night without saying goodbye. By the time I was walking down Witches Alley, alcohol and caffeine were kicking in hard. I felt synchronised and awake for the first time since falling out of bed this afternoon.

That feeling is fading now, and I'd probably already be in bed if I didn't feel so restless. As usual, the option of sleep seems the hardest to commit to. I know I'll lie there and stare at the ceiling, watching creases and cracks emerge from the darkness as my eyes adjust. What's the point? It's just dead time, wasted time. So here I am, doing what I do to fill the holes in my life and listening to the senseless patter of my fingers moving over the keys. And if I'm honest with myself, that's not as bleak a picture as I sometimes paint.