Drifting

I hadn't realised quite how busy I usually am, in mind or body or both. Lying in bed with all my accroutements around me - radio, light, electric blanket, water, throat sweets, pain killers, aspirin, sleeping tablets (only over-the-counter, almost never used), two books (Asunder by Chloe Aridjis and Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge, my third reading in 50 years), computer, tray with remains of lunch on it, empty coffee cup, crossword, eyedrops, Ibuleve, dressing gown - I fidget from one distraction to another, too dozy to concentrate on anything for long but not peaceful enough to just do nothing. I try, I really do. I stretch out, comfy under my soft duvet, supported by two fluffy pillows. I close my eyes, I try to relax and drift but I'm not tired enough to sleep, and so I sit up again, slightly agitated, and try to find solace somewhere. But nothing works for longer than 10 minutes. And so I try again. I had thought that my days were filled with half-witted pleasures when not engaged in physical work, study or socialising, that staring out over the fields in contemplation of Nature and Beauty, gazing with happiness over the garden and planning my next moves filled more time than I would have cared to admit. But my mind won't hold on to any of these cogitative occupations. I'm dismayed. Am I after all just a butterfly whose brain skips from experience to experience, thought to thought, with no constructive purpose? I lie back again, amused at my foolishness, and accept that I'm ill, I need to just switch off and stop trying too hard. It works. I doze for a long time as gentle images drift in front of my brain, and then I fall asleep. It's nature's cure. I'll be better soon.