Talking myself into it

When January does clear and frosty days, I think there is no better time of year. The light, what few hours we have of it in the North, seems to possess a clarity unlike any other time of year. And with the month getting older and the books I had hoped to have begun by now still unwritten, I took myself off for a long walk through the woods and down to the sea. I walked for hours, lunching on a handful of nuts and dried fruit, drinking a bottle of icy water, taking the occasional diary-photo on my phone, but mainly walking and failing utterly to still the ceaseless chatter inside my head.

Lordy, but I do go on. I would be booted out of any self-respecting monastery for crimes against meditation were I ever to join an order. My 'internal dialogue' is an internal wordsalad on steroids ramped up to an earsplitting volume by way of a Marshall stack. Somebody shut me up. Turn it down, wouldya?

I'm praying* it's entirely because I'm in the predromal phase of the socially-acceptable psychosis that is the precursor to going all-out fruit loops and gobbing out a book. But you know, I could be wrong. I could just be on the threshold of lunacy. Wouldn't be the first time. Uh huh. AWOOOOOOOOO. When is the next full moon anyway? Why are you backing away? Aw, c'mon. Stick around. It might be entertaining. It might be enlightening. It might even be unforgettable.

I can promise you one thing, schweethoit. It sure as hell won't be quiet.

*But, you know, not like a monk, yeah? More like a kind of Pentecostal holy-roller type with a bit of swaying and speaking in tongues. And fur. Sort of grey fur. And yellow eyes and pointy ears. Know what I'm saying? AWOOOOOOOOOOO?