I’m walking to Iceland. There are gouges in the road and pavement, like someone dug their nails into the skin of the earth and exposed its infested veins. All around are barriers, blood-red barbershop plastic screaming danger! but I think of another meaning and I imagine these holes as drop-off points for anyone brave enough to take the plunge.
They say “feet on the ground and head in the clouds” but I hover over the precipice and fail to break through the swathes of overhanging grey. I guess I’ll just keep stumbling in between.
In my town, my neighbourhood, I walk past the plants wilting by the train tracks, fenced in and tame, amnesiac, like old lions at the zoo and I think about how nature infects the city and how we taint forests with our overpowering, black treacle scents. I think about this place in the night time, where, under yellow light, the stooping trees look almost serene and how I always read by the rogue lamppost out my window.
I was born in the early hours of a dull Wednesday morning, and I’ve never gone looking for Thursday since.