Long dark night....

“In the long dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The nights are getting longer, and are dark. My soul rests battered and bruised from last year's break up which, incidentally, I am still recovering from, and it's British Mid-october, autumnal cold, 6.30 in the morning and still dark. 

The permanent warmth of the Far East is far behind with its exotic and erotic natures as I await the British sun which, this year, appears seldomly as if Covidly self distancing or yet another victim of Brexit.

It's too chilly to emerge from my duvet into the cold room with windows streaming with condensation, yet I am too restless not to. I've been awake since 4.30, hence I've had five and a half hours sleep, which is okay, not ideal, but okay.

Land gulls cry outside and the area begins to awaken. I imagine being in Thomas's Llareggub which lies under Milk Wood with Richard Burton's lyrical voice booming out about Captain Tom Cat and Myfanwy Price. But I don't know Colchester intimately enough to make the comparison.

Now 07.05 I am in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness. Some working men in the building stir, preparing for their day's toil on roofs or driving lorries. If I had the requisite items I would be thinking of breakfast preparation, but in yesterday's haste to buy lunch and dinner I forgot about today's breakfast, and there is no neighbourhood eatery to nip down to (the nearest being a mile away). Besides, it's still ruddy cold outside this bed. That's the dilemma, too cold to get out but nobody to keep me in. Ah such is the chaste life!

Help: I am stuck inside an Edward Hopper painting.