Another journey by night
Somehow, everything is becoming virtual ripples, concentric circles seen in a scene on a screen in black and white. We’re typing frantically, back and forth and back again. Dotting our eyes and crossing our tees until our fingers overwhelm us and our blurred vision can no longer keep up with our pathetic physicality. The mind hates the body, so we push ourselves to the limits of sense, to the point where we have barely enough energy to cuss and curse the fact that we cannot avoid sleep forever.
Here we are, then. Welcome to our peculiar patchwork, etched on the roof of the world. It flows down into the underpasses and climbs onto the flyovers, speeding along side roads and taking us on a crazed trip across a city that teems with people, screams with noise, and reeks of vomit, piss and alcoholic stench even at two in the morning, whilst the phosphorus glow bleeds dirty orange into the night sky. Everyone should be asleep, but they’re not. Not us, especially.
We hit the suburbs, blindly following the clattering rail routes to the outskirts. Here, pure instinct takes over, and we instantly know the windows we’re looking for because of the tell-tale signs of fluttering and agitation in the curtains. Remember, you can’t hide the disorder beneath, no matter how much you try. Break glass to sound the alarm, but don’t be alarmed because they will be expecting unwelcome guests despite the lateness of the hour. Ready? Come with, come with us.
Hurry, hurry more, because time is not our friend. This long night is against us. So we’re off again and away, crossing oceans to foreign corners bathed in sunlight and different seasons. As we land, we rub our eyes against the brightness and unfamiliarity that pierces and burns such sallow British skin. Again, there are no guessing games needed here, because junk shops in need of repair and crying out for a return to order look the same the world over, even if the makeshift signs say they’re closed for business.
Finally, our minds — already more alike than we care to admit — become as one. We’re inextricably meshed and bound, hovering near the ceiling. True enough, we’re still separated by more miles than we could possibly calculate, yet across the distance our fingers are clasped tight, digging into flesh that is as unfamiliar to the touch as it is familiar to the senses.
Listen to us. Listen and understand, just for once in your lives and certainly the only occasion in ours. We’re not dependent, because we’re the sort who are hard-faced and tough as old boots. as weathered as beaten leather. We learnt long ago not to depend on anyone or anything, but we’re clinging on for dear bloody life right now. Holding, just about. Just holding on.
Do you convulse in your sleep? Does your body try to jerk itself into wakefulness? Does your psyche show you sights that nauseate yet fascinate, which glue you to the spot and prevent you averting your bruised gaze? Do you kick and flail and scratch and bite and throw and hit and retch? Do you shout into the holes that open up above your head and beneath your feet? Do you plead with them to stop, whoever they are? Please place a mark in all the boxes that apply. Tick, tick and tick.
I know you do, because I do too. So does she. He does as well. All of us.
Sitting in a pool of sweat and shivers at 4:48am, waiting for dawn to break, it always feels too quiet. Deathly quiet. The last person you want for company is yourself. Yet listen carefully, press an ear against the cold wall, and it’s possible to hear a thousand hearts beating the same frenzied rhythm, a thousand words saying that it was just a nightmare, and a thousand whispers caressing an unkempt mind.