Nothing To Say

I write this as I wish to write something.  I have nothing to write and nothing to say.  My wizened mind is slow tonight, dull and dreary would be appropriate words, inspiration is lacking and no-one is around to read or care what I write. However my fingers insist I type something and my mind is still gurgling away wishing to write even though it fails to provide energy nor subject.  
Thus I find myself crawling to a halt at this juncture.  I look around, as if late at night I can find creative subjects in the grime engrained curtains or the clothes strewn around the room.  Thankfully the dim light hides everything else or I may write about what lies in those dark corners! The bits of the failed shower gather dust in one corner, a picture frame that refused to stay on the wall another, dust that has hardened somewhat now lies deep on the mantelpiece, possibly it is time for a Spring clean after all?
A lone passing car reminds me of the quiet nature of this town.  Saturday night in the big city, as indeed most other nights, brought constant noise, here we occasionally hear an owl hoot in the distance, a plane very high overhead, a dog cheerfully walking the owner.  Of course when the pubs come out it will be different for a short while, and the weekend supermarket shoppers tail one another for miles down the road polluting the world while grasping their special offers that are rarely special at all.  In the big city lucky people have a park nearby or maybe a garden to remind them of the world underneath all that tarmac.  Out here a five minute drive, an hour at 'rush hour' takes in country views.  Rolling gentle slopes, wide open fields the colours varying with the seasons, trees standing tall after more than a hundred years, even cows and sheep desperate to be partitioned and sold in plastic wrappers throughout the land.  The opportunity to sit at a green lined avenue listening to chirping birds and squabbling squirrels means little to those brought up in such places, it is merely the background to their lives, but for city folks it is breathing afresh, inhaling real air and refreshing the tired weary mind.  Of course not all air is that pure, big cities send their pollution this way quite readily and when farmer Jones adds manure to his land the locals know about it. 
This land has been keeping farmers busy from dawn to dusk for thousands of years, even before farming as such began people harvested the deer, following them across what is now the north sea to Germany and back again.  Crops were farmed probably three thousand years ago and the same fields that saw Iron Age man, Roman villas, Saxon and Norman peasants now provides us similar crops.  Apart that is from the bits we have developed towns and industrial estates on of course! Then war needs meant more space was taken up by airfields and not all of that returned to the farmer.  This explains the planes high above climbing towards Spain and France, Norway and China, taking the masses on holiday or the businessman to his wealth.  Blue skies reveal white lines criss-crossing high above, drifting slowly as they fade defiling the clear blue of the sky.  Drunken revellers seeking the sun fail to notice nor care as they look to the beaches and cheap beer bottles lying ahead.  Their own corruption entices them too much to worry them.
The books piled on the table beside me appear to grow each time I notice them. Crossword books dating back years, quiz books, a bible, Tacitus 'Annuls,' and instructions for long dead electrical equipment form the basis.  I am now afraid to search further in case long ignored letters appear also.  There is the remains of a jam sandwich, a 'piece' as we called it back home, gathering enough mould for enough penicillin to supply the NHS. I will ignore that also.  
Nope, the mind has not woken.  Sloth remains.  Only sleep, and I have had three of those already today, can remedy things now.  Sleep, that strange unconsciousness that takes a third of our lives.  The coma that allows the mind to refresh, it's like when we turn off the computer and switch it back on again and it works!  I can mention some folks who do not appear to do this often enough in my view.  Sleep offers dreams, usually instantly forgotten on waking while the emotions remain.  Can this be a means by which the brain resets itself?  Everybody has them, sometimes filled with the actions of the day often bringing to mind people and places, somewhat confused maybe but clear, from many years ago.  I often dream of a building I lived in, a place I worked in, a dead relative, there appears to be no reason but they are real enough for a few minutes or is that seconds?  Like the need for food and water sleep is one of God's ways of reminding us we are just mortals, not gods ourselves, something we forget all too easily.  Sadly we are not the centre of the world, he is, and only when he is centre of our life, my life, can the world be seen for in reality.  
Look at that, having nothing to say, worn mind, so worn I could not watch the football as it meant little to me, tired body still aching from the exercise three days ago and no inspiration coming through the ether I have managed to misspell more words than normal!  That takes skill!  Enough, I canny see the screen for eyes half closed, which indeed is how they have been all day. 

Yaaawwwn!