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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 