Monday, October 5

Prosaicus

THE WAY TO the Saturday pub was a route I was unfamiliar with, but I found it on a map and it was the most direct; down towards Wapping, diagonal to the Thames, rounding the Shadwell Basin, a still bulk of water eerily surrounded by dead houses and not the ubiquitous sound of traffic but of leaves, insects and muddy gravel beneath my feet. It was a long overdue meeting with a friend. We sat in the garden, talking over a few pints, the misty mug of London slowly lifting off the water and exposing the ships that strung across it. At first I was quiet & unsure – having found myself out of the flat much earlier than normal – but then I settled into his lovely company, and the pair of us laughing, before he, responsibly, took leave back to his family, cycling for forty minutes south across the river.
By then I had the taste; calling it a day at four o’clock would have been impossible, so I took the tube to the other side of the city. Twenty-some Irishmen in a bar under a hotel, rugby on the television, a series of tables joined together as they noisily collected full glasses and empty glasses, entertained a dozen conversations each and shouted to be heard. The ceilings were high and the walls were green. The staff couldn’t hear a word you said as the night fell quickly. It was a good, long night. The booze was not getting to me, not as I might have liked it to, but all in me was a feeling of sincere joy; not apparent in goofy smiles or incessant laughter, but in comfort and a friendliness I could not have asked more from. It ended with a loud singsong overwhelming the peal of last orders. The journey home was busy with all manner of families, tourists & revellers catching the last train. A young girl with precocious mannerisms, fingering a newspaper, amused people until their stops, as they glanced down from overhead advertisements; there were lovers on that train.
I know, I know, my writing is getting tired. It is awful, and I am bored of it. I am waiting for something to happen; but, what, I don’t know. In the evenings I wish to write, but either cannot find the inspiration or the effort – and writing is not something to be forced. Maybe I am just becoming one of those people who have nothing to say. Maybe the thoughts and the nightmares are finally getting to me, leaving me bereft of fanciful contemplation or blind to the nuance of life. Who knows. I am unhappy that I cannot spill more out. There is a chance that things may not return to how they were; this is indeed a most frustrating rut. I wish it would go. It is one of a few things in my life right now that I wish would go, for the sake of my sanity & my wellbeing.
All this to say: thank-you for reading me, if you still are.

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