Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus
Shakespeare missed out a bit, it seems.
We may be a lot, or little
More, or less
Plentiful, or lacking
Happy, or ever searching
All of these may be within us
But just as much is outside
And in the liminal spaces between the two withins
It’s in these spaces, that bodies talk
Through touch, speech, taste, and sight
Love is felt, lost, and rediscovered
Fellowships forged, broken, and reunited
It is within these spaces, that we become
More than us, even if just a bit more.
Or so I think.
I wait at the entrance of a bar
Brewery, drinking hole, a bustling space
Dreading the meet to come, I’d rather be someplace else.
Someplace else with friends, comrades, keepers of my soul
Fragments of my fellowship
Friends with broken arms
Friends chasing stories
Friends who feel ghosted
I’d rather be there instead of here
Here the hope is that there will be a story for the evening
To move beyond borrowed experience and have some of my own.
So when I meet these dear friends again, there will be a tale to tell
An evening to narrate
And belonging to feel
Hey hey hey,
I am in London.
Everything is so damn quirky and strange.
There is so much history here: owned, borrowed, stolen. But it’s here, and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Its overwhelming at times, the sheer number and geography of destinies which sprung forth and contorted themselves to the notes emerging from this city. This is true for my parents, and theirs before that, as it is for millions around the world.
Meanwhile, I spend my days in a library reading 18th century texts. It’s quite enjoyable, once you get used to the circuitous writing style, which is also unnecessarily polite. I occasionally take time out to dig out manuscripts pertaining to my home town and any information I can find on it. Apparently I have descended from ‘heathen’ ‘aboriginals’.
I am exceedingly tired today , and can’t even think of a half decent point for writing this, if not for its own sake. Nor do I have a profound observation about the city. Except perhaps how well dressed everyone is, and how I feel like a potato here. It’s annoying that I can’t ever dress well, or care to.
Finally, I think all women everywhere are beautiful. And fabulously better at most things. But before I go, a special mention about the women here. I struggle to frame this delicately, trying to balance between sounding appreciative while not seeming flippant: but these striking visions of beauty I can but be grateful for, and hope they realize they are so.
Ok they possibly do. And I can’t be poetic to save my life. And this just sounds all wrong.
Now I sleep. More history awaiteth tomorrow.
P. S. I am already seeing regular faces in the Tube.
Today, I submitted my first half finished assignment. Why? Because I am coming to terms with how acutely limited my aptitude with numbers is. Extremely limited. I can’t do numbers. I really want to, but I can’t.
And now I sit in a lecture, watching spectacular visions of post-human architecture in the dark landscape that is the future smart city. It’s beautiful, in a sad, depressing, inevitable sort of way.
Did I mention I am having bourbon from a flask? In my defense, I had forgotten I put it there.
I feel like writing a novel.
I have the feels, not the words.