3am

 At 3am I am drifting around the apartment like Banquo’s ghost, awake and not so much alive. I stand at the balcony door and look across at the apartments on the other side of the swimming pool… some have bright lights on. Why do they have bright lights on at 3am? I watch for a while, but nothing moves, no one moves. The tenants clearly thought it a good idea to leave a light on while they went away, but instead of leaving a dim lamp or a low-lit light on, they left the main dazzlingly bright light on, the one that I never use because it makes me feel sad and empty due to an association with final goodbyes. Getting back into bed, I finally fall asleep just as I start thinking of giving up and making a cup of coffee.

The dreams that came were not comforting. I was trying to get to the 11th floor of a building… I do not know if it was a hotel, an office, or my apartment building, but all of the elevators were out of order, there were no stairs, and some strange form of taxi kept driving around in circles, getting lost, with the driver apologising repeatedly. A reflection of my life at present. Although, in my life, no one is apologising. It feels like I have come full circle, spending time in my bedroom, writing and reading, like I did when I was a youngster without my own home.

I am reading a rather tomey biography of Joe Strummer, Redemption Song, and, after making it through the opening tales of grandparents and uncles and aunts and their 47 children, it is becoming very enjoyable. It is clear to see where Joe Strummer’s worldly views came from… the son of an international diplomat, Strummer was born in Turkey and lived in Germany, came from a Scottish/Indian marriage, and finally settled in England. At the risk of blowing my own trumpet, having moved to South Africa at the age of eight, and then travelling back and forth before moving back to England, then Spain, then the USA, I relate.

We are all a little lost.


  

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