Small Lives And Smaller Thoughts
"Lately I just can't seem to believe. Discard my friends to change the scenery. It meant the world to hold a bruising faith. But now it's just a matter of grace."
Waiting for the 16:18 from Luton Airport Parkway in an early, eerie dusk. The afternoon has barely had enough time to take its first breath before being stifled by night. I'm tired and sober on platform 1, the only chemicals in my system the last dregs of a sleeping pill I took several hours ago to still the tides of my mind. I'm dressed for winter, standing tall against a freezing wind in coat and hat and gloves, letting it water my eyes and numb my face, shivering a little and watching the chained signs swing back and forth, protesting in squeaks and creaks that sound, to my ears, like the anguished cries of mechanical birds with failing batteries. Beneath that, fragments of conversation carry over and past me, snatches of words and phrases that interrupt and overlap until they might be a single nonsense monologue, a stream-of-consciousness poem about small lives and smaller thoughts. Every now and again, an automated, disembodied voice announces the next train on platform whatever, apologises for a delay, reminds us not to leave our luggage unattended. If it told us that this was the end of it all, not a one of these huddled, anonymous commuters would bat an eyelid.
I walked out of another job. At around eight o'clock on Monday night, I strolled out from behind the bar, made my way calmly to Drone-Director Kevin's office, and informed him I was leaving at ten and wouldn't be back. I can only do these mind-numbing, soul-fucking jobs for so long. I left at the promised time, jumped on a train to N's for a few days, and here I am, trying not to think and anticipating the warmth of the train. Ahead lie explanations and recriminations, misunderstandings and arguments. My family are never going to understand the way I am. Standing here, staring up at the screen and seeing the letters and numbers as nothing more than luminescent curves and lines, I realise that I'm not going to face it this time, that I'm going to lie. I'm too tired for the same conversations about the same things. All I want to do is make it through the next week. I don't think that's too much to ask for. Just let me stumble through and make it to that plane. Whatever happens, things will change. Whatever happens, I'll be renewed, and I'll come back either sure that I was wrong about a lot of things or hardened in my convictions and ambitions. I want the former, want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. But one of the definining characteristics of being able to stand on your own two feet is that the latter will be enough to bring change.
But even here, standing amidst the squealing signs and the shivering travellers, watching the lights of the approaching train dazzle night's infancy, I trust my instincts and the warm nervousness in my stomach. That flight is close now, close enough that I have to tap my toes and wiggle my fingers and grind my teeth. I think of California, of first words and first kisses, and as the train draws up beside me, the sound of its engine finally drowning out the disquieting symphony of nowhere, I look up and catch sight of my reflection in a dull, streaked window.
I'm smiling.
Waiting for the 16:18 from Luton Airport Parkway in an early, eerie dusk. The afternoon has barely had enough time to take its first breath before being stifled by night. I'm tired and sober on platform 1, the only chemicals in my system the last dregs of a sleeping pill I took several hours ago to still the tides of my mind. I'm dressed for winter, standing tall against a freezing wind in coat and hat and gloves, letting it water my eyes and numb my face, shivering a little and watching the chained signs swing back and forth, protesting in squeaks and creaks that sound, to my ears, like the anguished cries of mechanical birds with failing batteries. Beneath that, fragments of conversation carry over and past me, snatches of words and phrases that interrupt and overlap until they might be a single nonsense monologue, a stream-of-consciousness poem about small lives and smaller thoughts. Every now and again, an automated, disembodied voice announces the next train on platform whatever, apologises for a delay, reminds us not to leave our luggage unattended. If it told us that this was the end of it all, not a one of these huddled, anonymous commuters would bat an eyelid.
I walked out of another job. At around eight o'clock on Monday night, I strolled out from behind the bar, made my way calmly to Drone-Director Kevin's office, and informed him I was leaving at ten and wouldn't be back. I can only do these mind-numbing, soul-fucking jobs for so long. I left at the promised time, jumped on a train to N's for a few days, and here I am, trying not to think and anticipating the warmth of the train. Ahead lie explanations and recriminations, misunderstandings and arguments. My family are never going to understand the way I am. Standing here, staring up at the screen and seeing the letters and numbers as nothing more than luminescent curves and lines, I realise that I'm not going to face it this time, that I'm going to lie. I'm too tired for the same conversations about the same things. All I want to do is make it through the next week. I don't think that's too much to ask for. Just let me stumble through and make it to that plane. Whatever happens, things will change. Whatever happens, I'll be renewed, and I'll come back either sure that I was wrong about a lot of things or hardened in my convictions and ambitions. I want the former, want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. But one of the definining characteristics of being able to stand on your own two feet is that the latter will be enough to bring change.
But even here, standing amidst the squealing signs and the shivering travellers, watching the lights of the approaching train dazzle night's infancy, I trust my instincts and the warm nervousness in my stomach. That flight is close now, close enough that I have to tap my toes and wiggle my fingers and grind my teeth. I think of California, of first words and first kisses, and as the train draws up beside me, the sound of its engine finally drowning out the disquieting symphony of nowhere, I look up and catch sight of my reflection in a dull, streaked window.
I'm smiling.
posted by Michael at 7:32 PM
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