A Hard Rain

I’m not getting out much – without getting wet, that is.

It has rained ceaselessly on these jagged islands since mid December. Across the country people have been washed out of their homes. The news headlines have moved on to drier ground: a seemingly never – ending number of trials involving well-known media personalities charged with serious offences ranging from rape to phone – tapping.

Regular readers will know that I describe myself as an all – weather cyclist. But lately something has, well, started to drip on my enthusiasm for pedalling in horizontal rain.

Winston Churchill – who coined the phrase ‘black dog’ to describe his bouts of depression – had a pretty remorseless view of coping with mental health relapse. He once wrote: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’. There’s quite a lot that me and the 2 time British Prime Minister and Nobel Laureate (Literature, 1953) don’t see eye to eye about, and this is one of them.

This attitude belongs to the Carry on Regardless school of thought. For me, it is like a scab in my brain that I cannot stop scratching. There is so much Good Advice out there, so many well-regarded Self Help Books ( a library of which I have read,) and so many wise words ( a few of which have been written by me these past 3 and a half years).

Right now, if I hear someone else utter sapient suggestions for how I could make myself  feel better, I am likely to, to ….. stare blankly into space.

I don’t know what I need at the moment. I am indoors, relatively dry, and the radiators are making the weather.

A Hard Rain’s A – Gonna Fall

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?

Oh, where have you been, my  darling young one?

I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains

I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways

I’ve stepped in the  middle of seven sad forests

I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans

I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

And it’s a hard, and  it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard

And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna  fall

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?

Oh, what did you see, my darling  young one?

I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it

I saw a  highway of diamonds with nobody on it

I saw a black branch with blood that  kept drippin’

I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’

I saw  a white ladder all covered with water

I saw ten thousand talkers whose  tongues were all broken

I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young  children

And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard

And  it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?

And what did you hear, my darling  young one?

I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’

Heard  the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world

Heard one hundred  drummers whose hands were a-blazin’

Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody  listenin’

Heard one person starve,

I heard many people laughin’

Heard the  song of a poet who died in the gutter

Heard the sound of a clown who cried in  the alley

And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard

And  it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?

Who did you meet, my darling young  one?

I met a young child beside a dead pony

I met a white man who walked a  black dog

I met a young woman whose body was burning

I met a young girl,  she gave me a rainbow

I met one man who was wounded in love

I met another  man who was wounded with hatred

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,  it’s a hard

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

Oh, what’ll you do now, my  darling young one?

I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’

I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest

Where the people are many  and their hands are all empty

Where the pellets of poison are flooding their  waters

Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

Where the  executioner’s face is always well hidden

Where hunger is ugly, where souls  are forgotten

Where black is the color, where none is the number

And I’ll  tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it

And reflect it from the  mountain so all souls can see it

Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start  sinkin’

But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’

And it’s a hard,  it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Bob Dylan (1941 – )

This entry was posted in Bi Polar Disorder, Cycling, Depression, Mental Health, mental illness, Poetry, Psychosis, Relapse, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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