In central London there are bins full of leaves. Nature’s waste, disposed of by humans. But are they waste? In the country they crisp and lie before expiring, an autumnal spread. In the city they congeal, clot, and cloy before being swept up, into bins.
New leaves fall, dance, die, a dab of colour before being soddened by the crowd. This is how I feel about the city at present. Drain me of my colour, variety. Cut with your cookie cutter to make the faces on the street. Cut bodies out of tissue paper and shake out the chain.
“We are all alone,” she says as she coils his arm around her waist, as she snakes her fingers between his, as she pulls his side spine towards her. Does that mean there are varying degrees of loneliness? Is company relative?
Sometimes, days envelope me, a vast grey expanse of emptiness. Unchartered seconds, minutes, hours. How to spend them, how to deal with them.
But really, this unfathomable horizon of time is merely a fraction, a shard; a tiny boxed off section of a week, a month, a year, ten. The choice, your choice of how to spend it is both overwhelmingly freeing and chokes and stifles.
Stop the clocks.
I spend my time cloaked in thought. I don’t understand him so I spend a lot of time trying to understand him, inevitably floating in a void of the unknown. The thoughts shroud me, filling my head with rubble that I cart with me to and fro on the tube.
But if I didn’t have this preoccupation, I wonder what I would think about? A girl sat next to me today; in her hand she clutched flashcards. On them were written – “fear of failure, fear of lack of achievement, fear of potential.” Maybe I would carry lists of things to think about on my commute if my head wasn’t so full of ways to crack him.
I said he doesn’t deserve my thoughts, he said it’s not about deserving.
The rain outside is unrelenting.
It bounces, and bounces, and bounces, into each new day.