I Do Not Belong Here

Mastodon

On a train to Brighton from Victoria, I don’t know if this was even 2005 as the entry is undated. It was not long before the old slam-door trains were replaced. Whenever I was travelling at night I would stand for the journey, in the vestibule between the carriages, I would open the window because you could. Not just a small window, the full window in the door slid down. An opening large enough for an adult to climb out of. Often the lightbulb in the corridor went out, leaving that piece of corridor completely dark, your eyes adjusted and the nighttime landscape came alive. It was after a journey like this I wrote the following.

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Atlantic Road meets Coldharbour Lane, I wait to turn the corner here, hiding in the shade of the railway bridge. Looking out at the blue sky backed buildings, that stand, and I imagine are really flat, like a scenery backdrop.

Coldharbour Lane on a baking hot day. I grew up just off of Coldharbour Lane. Which is a lie, but also the truth, I fled here. It was them or me, life or death. It saved me, here I first tasted life, and learned to be. I learned to breathe on Coldharbour Lane. The light changes. I cross the street and turn the corner.

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Men will caress an old whiskey with the kind of tenderness they never have for older women.

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The Word

The world is made of words future, past, and here and now. Language is the glue that holds the mess together.

Love and Hate are made of words, —you can’t have one without the other. Thats not to say that hate is right, the past has tried in many ways to warn us that it isn’t.

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Content note, mention of childbirth, and related interventions, and medical procedures. Some nsfw language.

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She writes and writes to calm the restless sea, and soothe her restless soul.

Like a pebble trying to resist a desert wind. The wind that erases and abrades whole mountain ranges down to dust.

She writes to leave a sun-bleached way marker poking up from a hollow in the desert floor that says; “I was here once, but am no more.”

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