13th of July, 2021
I’ve moved into a remote region of the universe where no voids or astral expanses of space surround it but instead large expanses of concrete villages. That is arguably worse than the dense blackness of space. The same people, places and noise of cars going into town meet you, meanwhile up in space though the view holds static for billions of years, it invokes emotions that last an eternity.
It’s a boneyard for buses, not entirely where they’re sent to die, but where they’re sent to spend the last few years of their lives before decommission. Every few seconds a bus blurs past in a red haze. People drive like maniacs around here, constantly slamming their horns at people for the littlest of traffic infractions. The road leading to town is always jammed with traffic while the road leading out is virtually empty. As if this town plays a spell on the people coming in and trapping them in it. Is this spell working on me? Because the only need I feel when I speak or think of this town is to leave it. I just happen to be fortunate enough that I have to rely on public transport rather than the roads, but even so, I have an empty, clear road to zoom down if things ever get too much and the need to escape becomes insurmountable. This place is so far out in the styx that it always takes the same amount of time to get into the main nerve of London; train, bus, car, airplane, all take equally as long.
There’s too much convenience here. Everything I could ever ask for is at my fingertips. Huge stores and every possible amenity is but a stone’s throw away from me. But apart from that nothing happens. No trouble, no culture, no nothing. I have to go looking for that stuff out of town, a good enough reason to get me out of the place.
The most interesting thing to happen is whether a falafel store, that stays closed most of the time, is open or not. This is the most amount of entertainment you get at the end of the Northern Line. Find your kicks in Afghani takeaways. Leap in front of a car and see whether it pulls the breaks or not. Walk down a street and see if an asteroid lands on you or not, most probably not.
Meanwhile life inside the flat is pure tranquillity. Nothing comes close to the perfect noise and freedom of craziness that reverberates around these small walls, contained and concentrated at their core. It rains cats and dogs outside while the insanity grows in here.
Cocktail tines explode, splattering the walls with blood, filling my eyes and nose with spice. Nothing better than the panic of cleaning the place up before the authorities walk in here and bust me for the murder of an invisible. Clean up those stains and drink the evidence. Shake up another tin (with ice this time) and ensure the damn things doesn’t split. This bloody spray will get you nowhere apart from prison.
The needle reaches the end, the sounds stop. It’s too quiet after a reckoning cacophony. Time to make some more noise which will never be complained about. Time to see how far I can push my luck before the knocks are heard on the door.
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