Lying awake in bed before my alarm. Thinking of the day.
Got to get up. Got to get going. The floor cold beneath my feet. I sat down at the table. The surface cold to my touch.
The old wooden chair — one of the most basic you can buy. Zero percent comfort.
I had intended to buy a more comfortable chair — maybe one of those office ones with back support and a headrest — but I never quite got around to it.
So every morning, I took my seat at the old table, before anyone else was up. I loved the silence. Well, apart from the low hum of the fridge.
The feeling that I was here before most of the rest of the world had stirred.
I couldn’t rest. I could barely dream. I had to get downstairs and write.
A good day for a last stand.
I like that Steve Earle line: “If I knew I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.”
I felt it — in my backache, in this belly I’ve never been able to shift.
Coffee is a cliché, but it was better than a can of Pepsi Max. I love the smell of coffee. Sometimes I could make a cup and just sit it there.
Black coffee. You put milk in it, marshmallows, or whatever the fuck — and you’ve ruined it. Black coffee.
When I wrote songs, I always handwrote the lyrics into a notebook. I’ve got a little laptop here, but I often find myself just writing straight onto my phone.
You pick it up — and the words start pouring.
Sometimes joy. Sometimes mindfulness, or music, or hope.
Sometimes it goes the other way — into the grey — depression, or the type of anxiety that keeps you up at night.
Both real. Both valid. Both life.
And if I can find something — in those early hours, or on the bus, or the front step, or wherever.
Then, for a while, I find a little peace. A little hope. A little understanding.
Like when you hear a song that changes your world. Or read something that lets a little light in.
Some days you hit. Most days you miss. But every day, you are searching.
I’ve never tried writing on the front step before. The cars zip by on the road. Places to be, places to go. I’m sitting here as the sun lights up the neighbourhood.
The warm air. Birds singing. Songbirds flit back into the hedge. Summer is coming.
There are more people about now. More buzz, more energy, more aggravation. All at once.
I sit back and take a deep breath. It’s a good day to be alive. You can feel the pulse of life picking up.
Raised voices. A commotion on the street. Someone’s getting thrown off the bus over the way. I wonder what they did.
Two voices shouting: The bus driver “is a cunt.” The passenger “is an arsehole.”
Then the door hisses shut and the bus pulls away. Shouts. A crash.
The bus brakes slam. I hear people running.
Here we go. Some things never change. The world keeps spinning. Life goes on.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 