Heart Sigh

As the leaves grow back on the trees and the pain gets harder to elucidate, I can feel my bones growing with reason, with politically influenced artistic expressions. I have never been more transparent, planning to write over thirty poems. I said so in a little black journal I've been casually writing in whenever simple thoughts occur. Hopefully I'll be out of lockdown and back to some sort of normality by the end of April, but by the looks of things I can't be sure. Yesterday I slept throughout the day and didn't wake up until eight o'clock in the evening. I went back to drinking. I went back to being compulsive, struggling with my feelings. I went back to being dissatisfied, but tried to remain hopeful. I pushed the disquiet mumbles to the back of my brain, to those cocaine white bones, the heads with buzzcuts, to the injuries from 1864. I listened to Chopin's nocturnes and studied Tintoretto, the larva to the pupa. In those prisms of light I heard my heart sigh. Last night I struggled to sleep and I can't get into a routine. This morning I woke up early when the sky was breaking into colour, had eggs for breakfast and drank some cold lemonade.  Recently I've been drinking and smoking and being idle more than usual, which is concerning, but I hope to get myself under control by the end of this April when life might get back in order and I'm not so chaotic. I had some fruitful plans for today and wanted to go for a walk to the local woodlands, but sadly nothing flourished and I wound up dwelling on the impossible. As always days are littered with spells of rain, and at night it gets more windy which deters me from the outside world, but the weather has been more sunny lately, especially between 7 a.m. and 12 p.m., so I'm hoping to visit Loch Lomond, an inspirational muse for me, pretty soon, to cruise the coast and take photographs. I haven't been back there since 2019, the last time I was on a train or ventured into the city. My fingers remain crossed.