Freewriting
I've been thinking about the moments I spend alone, the little moments at work when I make small talk with someone who I would never normally talk to and yet at work we are friends, we are happy to see eachother, we are smoking and caring about weather and broken headsets and the way the system is so irritating to the both of us when actually I really couldn't care less, but it makes the day go by. It is something in my life that is totally mine and my friends might hear about some of the larger issues at my job but they don't know the small laughs at customers, they don't know the little discussions that give you eyes into the other people in the world, the small number of customers that you really feel something for. And those walks home when the night is lit up by the offices of menial workers still shuffling on within squares of broken strip lighting, and the streetlamps by the estate that flicker and fizz, and the drip of songs in to one's eardrum, the beat and repeated emotion from produced sound and how it makes me feel, how it makes me feel when I see the terraced blocks move past my aching feet with the music pounding in my head and the thoughts on overdrive, imagining conversations I could be having with you or someone new, or the possible love I strive for in my daydreams, checking my phone to see if you've called. The newsagents on my journey is run by a young woman who keeps her baby out back and only leaves it's crying side when a customer comes in to buy a box of matches and she checks my age, I think she's younger than I am. Those little moments when your manager offers a lift, and you realise they aren't the monsters they make out to be. And yet no inspiration for my writing, and yet when I think of things to write I get distracted, and yet I can't seem to care about any of it. I find myself needing to be late just to lose those precious minutes to the whirring of the washing machine and the the click of the gas. Seconds just sitting and staring at the work clothes that lie motionless on the floor, seeming cold and uncaring. Hours skipping from house to house to see friend or acquaintance just to avoid the terrifying boredom and crashing pessimism in my own head and yet when I think I think of things that could be and it depresses me to know they never will. My brain constantly reminds me I'm alone. My brain constantly feels the need to pick defect after defect until nothing I have done or will do has meaning. Like saying a word over and over until all you have is the syllable, intonation and beat. The movement of your lips and the caress of your tongue over your teeth and the small vibrations in your throat. Bringing it all down into specific repetitive droan. I am a glass of water on the mantlepiece stagnating in my self made cage. I am a snippet, a flash, a minature cog. I am the same experience you could have with anyone. I am making conversation. I am small paranoid worries in the back of your head itching to take over. If you don't look quick enough, I'm no longer here.