I am British and Therefore Superior So I Only Get My News From the BBC

Being British I am superior. And being such I only watch the BBC. In this article I explain why, using words even non-BBC watchers will understand.


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4:25 am: Prologue

I saunter along the banks of some dark boundless ocean in the multiverse that is my mind. The gentle undulating waves that once lulled me into the depths of its waters, now burble to spur me back into existence that awaits me at the slightest hit of light or sound on the shores of my soul. I pause to take in the salt of expectations which quickens the beat of my heart. And my feet, now feel a tingle at every grain of memory-known and unknown to me.

Hitching a ride on the crest of a delta wave, I have traversed the night bearing witness to the many worlds I inhabit. Some, I rebelled and repelled, but for the most part, I revelled living in the many potentials that will perhaps never come to be. So, I ponder at the notion of hope and how finally it convinces me to come home to my being. Soon in a mad diffusion of light and fluttering lashes and at the rising sound of a muscle spasm inducing alarm tone, there will be an awakening.

4:30 am: Awake(ning)

It is warm inside this quilt, a safe space that doesn’t judge. I am covered head to toe, as usual, when it’s all too much- like the conditioned air, which at 24 degrees is usually coolish, but ends up feeling chilly. My thermostat has been off-kilter for a while now, perhaps from all the superfluous thoughts that keep dipping into the energy reserves of my body. The thinking kicks in like a daemon- a mischievous one, that makes notes of the debris it picks up from the surface of my sleep and will soon be sent to the “forensics” for further cogitation.

The soft ambient white light on the nightstand to my left is a double agent, diffusing a fine mist of sweet marjoram. It starts with the right intention- then the light gets a tad too bright for my liking and the aroma fazes me around 11:30 pm. The very things meant to unwind me, usually have me wound up and so I beat retreat inside, doubling down around the bottom edges of the quilt with my feet, so not a single degree of warmth is lost by convection. But, unlike the rest of my body which is compliant by being inside and in need of heat, most nights see my left arm flinging itself out in revolt, which gets annoying. A dissident in my being! Yet this arm redeems itself when like a stealth soldier it reaches to quash that infuriating alarm on my phone…

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