It’s rained all week. Dank, dull and dreary. The rain has descended in icy sheets across the Northern Irish landscape and I battle through it on the daily commute to and from work. My head is down, shoulders clenched, I think of nothing but making it to the dry, warm confines of the office. This is August but it feels like November. For once, the pandemic is not the primary source of conversation. Us Irish love to complain about the weather.
It’s dull. Both literally and metaphorically. My senses are stymied. I have a recurring tension headache over my eyebrows and I couldn’t get heated up last night. Christmas seems an eternity away and I’m grateful for the coming Bank Holiday Monday and a three day weekend. I need time to recharge my batteries and replenish my strength. There are blogs and books to write. I need to be sharp, fresh, creative. Dullness is not an option.
Yet, sometimes I need to be dull. When the beast inside raises its ugly head and sniffs an opportunity to rise and wreak havoc within my carefully constructed life. I’ve rebuilt from ruins and it would like nothing better than to reduce my hopes and dreams to rubble again. I need to turn the volume down, to dull the thoughts. Drive them underground, for otherwise they will overpower and consume me. I need to take my medicine like a good boy and dull the pain.
Light and darkness. I exist in both, craving the former but occasionally retreating into the latter for the purposes of self-preservation. I refuse to hide, to cower away from my old enemy, yet now and then a tactical retreat is required. I’ve learnt from bitter experience that going toe-to-toe with my demons will result in defeat. I need to fight clever and catch them in the long grass. For this is a war of attrition, with no ceasefire in sight. Today I need to be dull.