I wanted to feel closer to all the words I’ve read, so I packed a suitcase and left.

The lights of London from the sky reminded me of home, which should have been a warning I suppose. But I wandered the streets looking at the ghosts in the gutter. I drank pots of coffee and ate boiled eggs and wrote down my thoughts in frenzy writing spasms, thinking this is how we’re supposed to live.

One foot in ruin and the other in warm pubs.

Somewhere along the  wide roads with blinking lights I fell into the present. I no longer saw the young beautiful men with cheeky, drunk smiles and permanent ink in their fingertips. I started chasing after my own shadow, wanting to write down the walls and the signs and the broken voices who sang outside my window at 4 am.

They sang about the cold and about trying to keep afloat.




Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s