When I try to visualise my emotional landscape – and I assume I’m not the only person who tries to do that – what I see, what I feel, is the sea.

I’m bobbing among the waves, and all I can feel is the movement; I can’t see beyond the wave I’m experiencing. Sometimes one wave is joy and the next anger and the next nostalgia and the next excitement; it can be tempestuous. Sometimes the waves are small and calm and consistent, and so am I. Sometimes I surf my waves, sometimes I am overwhelmed by them and sink, but the wave always passes and I always rise back up, above the surface.

What I need now and then is to rise above the waves, say in a large and robust bubble, so that I can have a break from the incessent bobbing up and down and look at the sea as a whole. From this perspective the waves look much more manageable, and I can rest for a while, even if I only rise a little way up and still feel the motion. Sleep can provide a bubble; so can meditation; so can alcohol, though the alcoholic bubble is unstable and prone to bursting.

Essentially I’m a sea creature, and I regard the waves as my fundamental reality. That time in the sky is necessary, though. Sometimes I can even look down at where I am, and chart a course for the horizon.