I watch with curiosity, as my medication kicks in and grinds to a gradual halt my cogs and wheels, the invisible-but-visible layer of alcohol that transforms the inside othe sierry glass into tearful, rheumy old glass like the panes I so love in Grahamstown.
I'm back from a quick walk to the top of the block, and back.
I know these streets, now a lot more forested, intimately: I used to pound them incessantly in my high school days. Always the recluse, I used to do my road training for athletics at night. I loved the voyeuristic insights into the homes of lives along my routes. Also the scents of the blooms, an especial highlight was the cloying scent of the jasmine, always the first hint - early in July - of the soon to be coming spring. That scent sent a thrill though my mind, then body.
I have so much more to say.
But the meds dulls my senses, slurs my typing.
The walk, as always, did me good.
I received a tiny piece of perspective on the article I'm writing that was due today, but will not get there on time.
I'm on the tightrope, utterly distrustful of myself, of my words and thoughts, thoroughly insecure; every writer knows this excruciating point of a story.
The photo is of the village of Hogsback's main road; I took it exactly two weeks ago.
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