I was nowhere, man. Yo-yoing. Highs and lows. Perturbed expression as I traversed the dirty heavens.
There was a yearning, such yearning for Yesteryear. It whipped about but now it’s contained. There’s a chalkboard in the loft—metre high, metre wide. On it I posed the question: A tempest in a tea cup or the Second Coming?
Years pass and the winds of my heart have frozen. But then, when I had given up hope and maggots had chomped down the chalkboard, things just started to happen. I stumbled into Arcadia, and I’d only been trying to get to Stokey. I wish—oh, how I wish!—I had it in me to retrace my steps, but I don’t. Better just stay here then, amongst the doe-eyed and the fresh-faced and the innocent.
The Sun beats down, impressing upon me the finite nature of life. Ah, chlorophyll and marzipan and consciousness. It was a masterful mismatch, some divine miscalibration that got me here—a chance meeting. Do you remember way back when, when we flew over Kensington on our way to Bethlehem? Oh, but of course you do, how could you forget! We were going to be happy forever after. We were going to rule the stars except we never did.
Your eyes rolled back into your skull.
Something I’ve done? A whole 360 turn, inside out! Your marbles are spinning, flitting between dream and reality. The already-happened and the never-begun. Always dancing between the two. Just pick one! Or am I going to have to leave you behind anyway?
Do you want war or peace? Oh, little one. Understand that holiest of all hypocrisies. Understand yourself. The truth lies, my friend, and morality is immoral.
She’s not a picker, not a chooser. She’s already picked, already chosen. The star child still lives on in you, in the gunge of your old gym shoes. Run like I ran. Move, move, move through the metropolis. You have made your decision and from this far out I cannot tell if you’re coming or going.
In Westminster, there’s a squabbling but no one is acknowledging our new world order. We were bubbles on the horizon! Remember! I floated on, past the Gherkin and into somewhere. I’m piecing it all together now. I am retracing my steps. Somewhere between Stokey and Utopia. Finsbury? Oh, who cares? As if I’d ever go back. Slip through the cracks.
No, I don’t think I’d ever go back.
Wells Street Journal 