A Theory of Time

It’s nearing the end of January and it feels, if we were on a ship, as if the shore we are bound for is finally approaching. Back in December, bar the delightful interlude of Christmas, it felt as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic. November was ugly … cast off into the winter. Of course there are many wonderful things to be had in the winter, and I try not to accelerate away from my January: but there’s a part of me which is so much an animal. It hibernates and then, around now, grows restless. It twitches in its sleep and turns around. In its dreams it has its own theory of time and it seems that theory is underwritten by the sea (maybe I was once a ship’s rat, or a pirate – I’d like to look like Johnny Depp).
      Winter is a long, viking-like haul through awful, cold, dark seas. Lived out somewhere in my rate-pirate-Depp soul, this sun-craving, warmth-deprived undercurrent drives the hibernating beast in me to dream about February: the rowers see the shore and begin to row more quickly … so they cut a few days out of the month and February’s gone more quickly. March: spring. There’s the beach.
     I wish I’d been born in Spain. Only then I wouldn’t really get David Bowie.

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