Who the hell was that woman?

‘Good morning’ she mumbles as she walks out of her bedroom door.
I don’t say anything, I am preparing to frog-march a strong coffee back from the kitchen, at 8am such things take all my concentration.
‘Good MORNING!’ she says again, this time a lot louder, with an annoyed squeeze of the voice box on the last word. I realise my rudeness and apologise,
‘Sorry, yes, good morning’ I say.

It is only then I look up from my work for a moment and realise I am not 100 percent sure who this person is. I just stare into the semi-darkness as she disappears up the stairs. I think I just saw a black woman in a white towel with a turban, but I am not sure. I feel bad. I obviously upset her with my allegiance to coffee and lack of response to her. But I am given to silences and long, rude stares; if I knew her she would know this. I see the cat doing much the same to me through the window.
‘Good MORNING!’ I say to the cat. It says nothing. At least we understand each other. I return to my coffee.

Days can start smoothly or they can start much like they would for a tuna fish being thrown to a tank of hungry sharks. I wonder what the weekend holds in store. I sit bythe window of my bedroom, as I do most mornings that I manage to wake early, and begin to tippy-tap into the computer. I love it, but sometimes I feel the edge just isn’t with me. Trying to reign in, as I am, the runaway horses of the mind. I wonder if I should write about this, or write about that. Sometimes I think freedom of thought is not the blessing we think it is, sometimes freedom is bloody hard work. For the moment I feel there is nothing to write about; it is as if I haven’t lived at all. This scares me somewhat.

‘You’re losing it son’ I say to myself
‘No I am not, it’s you, you just can’t stay focused’ I reply
‘Hell, you may have something there, but come on, lets not fight, together we can do this, what shall we muse on today?’

(There is a pregnant pause)

Pauses call for cigarettes.

I light one and take a step closer to death on the chessboard.
This isn’t something to fear, I tell myself, this is something to embrace.
Even death must have its silver lining.
But let’s not talk of the Black Angel this morning because we have life all about us, flowing, in motion, like a river roaring through our senses.

I am looking for my moment, waiting for the gap in the waves, the precise instant that feels right. And then I will make my glorious dive. Like the tuna right into that shark tank; unafraid, joyous, determined, and of course slightly stupid.
‘You did it again’, says me
‘Did what?’ I ask, feigning innocence but knowing what is coming.
Like a well-rehearsed play, a crow at that moment caws three times outside the window someplace.
‘You started in on the morbid shit’ me responds.

(Pregnant pause)

Pauses call for....

‘...We aren’t quite rolling with it this morning, are we.’ me interjects, as I spin and turn about myself like a neurotic dog chasing it’s tail, wondering where I put the fags.
He’s right, the bastard.

I pause.

The runaway horses neigh and whinny like the insane beasts they are.
‘Whoooa!’ I say ‘Whooa there!’
Crows are going crazy now outside.

Jesus, something is going down I am sure of it. What kind of hell day is looming out there? I feel like that freaked-out rabbit in Watership Down. This will not do, I try to steady the ship. Lash down the rigging, pull in the main sails, weigh the anchor.

Stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP!

But it is too late, my carriage has arrived.
The start of another day is upon me.
Who the hell was that woman?