Sophocles or Socrates


A tainting of the blood? What is this manifestation? What marks me so? Is it not enough to have a troubled heart? It has been a decent spell but the words and works fall into ruin once no one is there to remind the world of their existence. But do a search and there will be something to serve as a reminder… a lullaby when I’m gone.
            Only yesterday, awake at sunrise, still drunk, bloodshot eyes after only a few hours of sleep. A drive home, a shower, a bus ride, a train into London and a two hour tutorial in which we were asked to speak about a passage from Sophocles' Antigone… another moment of temporary terror to savour once it fades to memory… a pleasant memory of something worthwhile, something different to the regular run of ordinary daily life. Banishing the banality. Once done, a walk with a friend under an umbrella in the pouring rain along the Thames. Beer and wine. Lunch before it was absolutely too late. Morrissey’s Autobiography. Thoughts of French beauty.
            Later, medication finally put the mind to sleep and the body was able to get the first decent rest in a week.
            It’s Sunday and the thunderstorms have been replaced by sunshine. I’m hoping for another storm.  

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