Into the white

They’re waiting. As I reside in the muffled stillness of an all too rare sun-dappled afternoon and silently mouth my prayer for peace, I can sense their presence outside the door. Waiting for me.

A snaking line of three hundred and thirty-three figures queues along the dark corridor, round the bend and down the stairs. They are so desperate to avoid invading anyone else’s precious space, to remain blissfully ignorant to mere passers-by, that they press their backs up against the painted, peeling, repainted walls and barely dare to exhale.

Yet I can hear the shuffling feet, carefully pacing time in their places, and the nervous coughs as sly glances are exchanged before eyes return to gaze at the floor. This waiting game seems a peculiarly British institution: the epitome of politeness just begging to be ripped asunder by the latent violence seething under the skin and bone. The assembled and expectant are clenching their knuckles and gritting their teeth, because one wrong move will almost certainly result in a burst blood vessel or two.

This halted procession may come clad in regulation blacks and greys, but in shape and size they couldn’t be more different. The straightened and the straight-backed, the straight up and down again; the bent and the bowed, the doubled up and round again; the crossed and the dotted, the cornered and the curved again. Each could wax lyrical for hours on end about their individuality, whilst claiming almost in the same breath that they believed in co-operation, teamwork, and striving together for a common goal.

They are so eager to please. Why would I want to disappoint them?

I should let them over my threshold. I should throw open my door, my welcoming arms and my dusty pages so they can reacquaint themselves with the surroundings and make themselves at home. Once, not so long ago, I was only too glad of their frequent company - even if, at times, their knocking was insistent, bordering on frenzied. I would welcome them under my roof, wash and clothe them in fresh apparel, listen to their tales from far and wide, then feed them warm words in return for such silver-tongued stories. Their appetites would be well and truly sated, and their eyes would gleam as they realised they were about to make their mark.

They looked into the white light, sank into the white lined.

Strange, then, that I should now wish to shoo them away, to stand in front of them and shake my fists in a scarecrow scattering. I haven’t missed my late night guests. I noted their absence, but never once queried their whereabouts, assuming that they had found some bed for the night.

I looked into the white light, warmed myself in the white heat.

I stared into the rising sun and saw half a face. Screwed up my eyes against the fierce glare and soaked up the shadowy profile. Yet that was all I needed. That was more than enough. I listened through the door, and not a single shuffling footstep or nervous cough could be heard. Inside, life went on.

They’ll be back, when the hunger grips them. When they need feeding. When they’re seized by the insatiable desire to let loose, scream, shout, stamp their feet and demand attention. When they can no longer resist the lure of the bright, bright white.