Took a walk in the winter sun. The cold air stings your lungs.
The cough is proof of life.
The streets are quiet, but the gyms are busy. Folk still got Christmas trees up, lights shining through the windows. A few casualties still making their way home from Hogmanay parties. C’mon, pal, it was New Year’s 3 days ago. Guy’s asking me:
“Can you help me find my house? I’m due back to work tomorrow.”
“Er… whit?”
Turn around and they have gone. The search continues.
I cut through the alley, avoiding the shoppers, and over the bridge.
The mural looking good.
Couple playing acoustics on the bench. Sounding good. Sounding real. Could be the next Biffy.
Walk through the park. Sunshine glistening off the river. The water running low. It hasn’t rained for days. Blue skies. Typical, we get the sunshine and it’s minus 3.
Christ, I’m a moany bastard.
A smile breaks across my face.
I turn up the music and listen to the song I recorded last night.
I was playing guitar earlier, trying to finish a song I’d been writing. Got the notebook open. Chords written down. Something not quite working.
Frustrated. Breathe out. Take a break.
Sitting on the couch.
Switch on the TV. Flicking through videos. Can’t settle. The talking heads, the influencers and the product placements, the endless twenty-first-century noise.
Too much.
The screen goes blank and then there they are. Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. Alll of a sudden and without warning.
Guitar, mics. The band look at each other.
The beat hits. The bass.
The song hits me, wakes me up. Before I realise it, I’m moving around the living room, shouting to the missus,
“Have you heard this song?”
She’s laughing at my best moves. We’re dancing close. The guitar hits, and we’re jumping around like we don’t care if anyone is watching.
She says, “What’s that one called?” “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter.”
I hit play again. Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. I feel better already.
I’m sure I stood here before, in another life. On this stage, back to the drums, these shoes on the hardwood floor, singing this song like it was all I was, all I had. The drums keep the beat like my pulse.
I’m thinking of the room where this started. Alone, broke, writing. Sitting alone at the end of my bed, on the couch, on the floor. The window open, the cold air drifting in, your perfume lingering.
To here. To this moment.
Fighting the gravity, fighting the grey in the spotlight. Trying to prove, at least once, we are alive. Looking for a connection.
Wee man just scored the winner, 20-18, in the garden cup.
When did he get so good?
Running circles ’round the old man. Rainbow flicks and nutmegs. Almost make me wish I’d gone easier on him in those first games.
Hear you calling from the kitchen: “It’s ready!”
Toasted cheese or roasted cheese? Cheese on toast… We never could agree.
And a spot on the couch, your smile, your laugh, as you steal the best seat.
Your eyes smiling, 20 years of love, as you turn on the TV. Everyone Loves Raymond, family favourite, a Channel 4 special, familiar as the Ayrshire rain.
Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a volcano.
The silence of the night. Weighs you down. Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe.
I felt like if you whispered then the whole world would hear.
But you knew it couldn’t be true. Could it?
I watched the cold, steady rain fall through the early hours.
The light reflected on the puddles and cracked pavements as daylight bled in.
The streets were empty, the silence broken by an occasional ambulance as it sped up the street . Its lights flashing, siren howling at the crossroads.
Life and death. In a moment.
I sat by the window. I’d been up most of the night.
Sleep had become like a fugitive lover you could no longer depend on. Here and then gone, with no guarantees when it would be back.
My brain was running ragged, worrying about everything and nothing all at once. In an exhausting battle with itself.
I’d given up trying to sleep and got myself a coffee. It sat untouched on the window frame. That smell used to give me comfort.
Now, like so much of life, it just drifted past.
A little mountain of silver packaging sat next to the coffee cup, my constant companions. Pills to slow a racing heart, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. The doctor had scared me off the sleeping pills. They were very addictive, so I should take one or two and then stop.
How bad could it be?
Bad.
It felt like I was back at the volcano’s edge again.
I was already hung up on insomnia and everything else. I really didn’t want an addiction to pills to go with it. But I’m not a doctor. Maybe I should have just gone for it.
The room was cold, and I noticed my breath in front of me.
I picked up my notebook. The page screamed back at me. Empty. Line after line. A song unwritten.
Words unsaid.
I looked out the window and saw a milk float making its way up the street.
Had I slipped some gap in time? Who gets milk delivered these days? It made its way up the street but didn’t stop at any houses.
Just kept going.
Was I dreaming?
I caught my reflection in the window. My beard was a little greyer. A few more lines on my face. But I didn’t recognise my eyes.
The brilliant blue was gone. Just dulled and faded.
A scream built up inside me. My heart raced.
I opened my mouth but no sound came.
Silence.
I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried again. There was a small rumble, which quickly evaporated to nothing as the breath escaped my lungs.
Emptiness. Everywhere.
I wanted to dial 999. Call an ambulance. Call a doctor. Call someone. Anyone.
My words choked me as I looked around desperately, my hands at my throat.
I watched as the number 22 bus made its way up the street. I saw the lights. People setting about their day. Travelling into work.
I tapped on the window. I hit the window as hard as I could, but no one noticed.
I slumped back in my seat, exhausted. My arms fell heavy to my sides as I felt the sweat rolling down my forehead. It felt like my head was melting as I looked into the window. It seemed like the world was shrinking and my face was disappearing.
Into nothing.
I looked around the room.
My guitar stretched out, losing its shape, melting before my eyes.
The room began to bend and stretch, losing all shape. An endless emptiness stretching as far as I could see . In every direction. Forward and back.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 