The Evening Of September 18th, Which Was Around When The Metaphor Began Whirring Again, And The Bliss Of Her Ankles Was Tapping On The Floorboards

all of this thanks to Jaimeson, whose texts inspired these texts. all of this for her; all of this for everyone.

Jesus CRISPS this traffic it's like someone vomited cars and then just DIED, you know? Man I can't get over all these buzzing wheels and the MONOTONY OF RED LIGHTS if you get what I'm saying, which is that I'm just so tired of this thing called 'stop', and how I love single quotation marks like Go Cards love overcharging you, or like tunnels love pretending to cave in, moving towards you in your head, breathing on you like a heavy, heavy breath that swells up like a sigh but angrier and there's no release there, man, none at all, no expulsion but just like an empty space of air and the golden light on the parkland trees, and the blasting of souls in your ear, and the sun's reflection maybe, but not the actual sun, no, it does not feel safe it is hidden behind skyscrapers and nine-to-five office jobs, because that's something even the sun is afraid of, yeah? I don't know about any of these things but I do know the start/stop/start and the desire for everything to flatten out like roadkill under semitrailer tyres, or light through the window from just the right angle between the blinds, or neon headlights on sports cars, all expensive and pensive and--That Sunset's Just So Goddamn Perfect, You Know?

This is the sad truth of reality: assumptions, and how things are never as they seem, so rarely how you want them to be, and so often they are far more complex than that--this makes you wonder, then, about the birds, and about whether they sing out of happiness or instead because they have lost something very dear in among the leaves, so many goddamn leaves man, all of them blooming and changing colours and falling with the seasons, and it's all so overwhelming, she's just a little bird you know, all small and her feathers are only now reaching their full lengths, and her wingspan is a smile, and her flightpath is a dream, and there's just so much going on right now, and she's singing, and she's singing, and she's singing, and a train goes by and she flies away.

It's a function of timelessness, yeah? And how things only mean anything when we look at them from a certain angle, or from every angle, you know, like a really beautiful thing, which shines at you from every side like a tiny star that you orbit, a shrunken little airborne streetlight of hope and the shadows it casts--and all of it you see and you understand as you spin--this is beauty like a memory made in the moment, and the sadness of her small steps away from you and the glistening tears and the makeup that runs and the way she kinda walks more quickly the further she gets away as though forcing herself not to look back, you know, because she knows that when she looks back things will still be beautiful, and that from where she stood then and now there will always be that streetlight star, always that glowing refuge, always, always, always, and not only in a dream.

And then, maybe, we could find some solace in this beauty being recognised by other people, and the mutual understanding that artistic partnership is the most beautiful of partnerships, like two minds tapped into one consciousness, you know, like everyone's drinking from the same downhill stream, and you're just two people who happen to be sharing a straw, kneeled over alongside some mutual sense of connection as the water rushes so goddamn fast man, and the world seems to be passing faster than you can drink, but it tastes so fucking clean, to be sharing a straw like that, to be sharing anything at all it is so goddamn beautiful anyway since we're all so scared to let each other in, you know, like a West End apartment with half-a-dozen locks, because everyone on our floor heard what happened to Charley, and how hard that was to come to terms with, and so we bolt and chain and shiver beneath one blanket too few, you know, and we stare longingly at our phone screens and wonder: What If You Are There And If You Are Then 'Hello'.

Slow conversations and connections are okay, because you know how it is--we're all on these busy timelines, you know, like train schedules on tracks in opposite directions, and that moment at the interchange when you have one minute to get from platform five to platform eight, that's what life is like now, and we exist in that one minute together maybe, at least for a while, but the interchange is such a bustling place, and there's not ever that much time, and the conductor's blowing that goddamn whistle so goddamn loud like a dog's whine when you step on his foot, because you just weren't watching, man, and how could you have been?--there's so much going on, and your phone is going off and the kettle is boiling, and suddenly everything is screaming, and there's liquid in your eyes and you're breathing in the steam, and you cough a little, and you take a moment, then, to pour your tea and suddenly the screaming has stopped, or at least you cannot hear it, and the dog has curled up on your lap and you take a moment to let out all that trapped and musty air and--the train has left without you.

Jonathan O'Brien