In the last outback at the world's end
10th May, Midmorning
The Whitechapel
I have hardly rested, with the ache of that pull inwards in these bones. It has eased within the town but still tugs me eastward; I refuse to answer it. I have walked on through the town on these injured feet and out the other side. I have no desire to be here: no desire to be conscious as I am, to be. I was hardly given a choice, though.
I have passed a tall white tower, and when I passed I thought: I could rest there. Lie down on the ground, let the sun warm me and the rain wash me, let the grass grow up to tangle my hair, and not move again. I don't know why it spoke to me of that, why I felt I should wait there. But I passed by.
I know what these things are: town, tower, road. I have words for them, and meanings. I can't remember seeing them before. So there's a forgetting in me, another unexplained thing. That itself is a small piece of knowledge of myself.
My thoughts are growing clearer, too, emerging from shadow and night wind and knife's edge. I am aware of that, as the tower grows smaller behind me.
And then I am walking past it again, back towards the south. I do not fool myself that I have been mistaken: I have been turned back upon my path.
It makes me angry, lips peeling back from teeth. I will not go east, I will not answer it, not until I choose. But I do return to town, and find a drinking place (and there is something else I recognise and understand). Perhaps tomorrow I will answer that eastwards call.
Open
The Whitechapel
I have hardly rested, with the ache of that pull inwards in these bones. It has eased within the town but still tugs me eastward; I refuse to answer it. I have walked on through the town on these injured feet and out the other side. I have no desire to be here: no desire to be conscious as I am, to be. I was hardly given a choice, though.
I have passed a tall white tower, and when I passed I thought: I could rest there. Lie down on the ground, let the sun warm me and the rain wash me, let the grass grow up to tangle my hair, and not move again. I don't know why it spoke to me of that, why I felt I should wait there. But I passed by.
I know what these things are: town, tower, road. I have words for them, and meanings. I can't remember seeing them before. So there's a forgetting in me, another unexplained thing. That itself is a small piece of knowledge of myself.
My thoughts are growing clearer, too, emerging from shadow and night wind and knife's edge. I am aware of that, as the tower grows smaller behind me.
And then I am walking past it again, back towards the south. I do not fool myself that I have been mistaken: I have been turned back upon my path.
It makes me angry, lips peeling back from teeth. I will not go east, I will not answer it, not until I choose. But I do return to town, and find a drinking place (and there is something else I recognise and understand). Perhaps tomorrow I will answer that eastwards call.
Open