I’m sitting in a friend’s house in Hackney at three in the morning. The window that I’ve been hanging out of having a cigarette is open, and drifting though it is the sound of early morning traffic and a woman with an Australian accent talking to someone she loves on a different timeline.
I just had an argument with a person I care deeply about and can’t sleep so I thought rather than analyse, over analyse and perhaps cry, I’d write something down. Maybe writing can ease the lump of hurt that I feel at the back of my throat and the waves of loss of control and feeling of everything falling away from me.
Perhaps if I write it away, my life will click back into order again.
Not being in the safety of my home territory, but instead sitting on a mattress in another city, I am scrambling for solidity and words will may well give that stability back to me.
I’m a very controlled person and not having recourse to alcohol or drugs, my expression is reliant upon creative means.
So falling in love has pushed me to an extreme that I’m not used to.I’ve been shaky and out of my depth, all the more so as the person I’ve sacrificed a piece of myself to inhabits a different world.
A world of alcohol and members’ clubs and casinos. A corporate, work-driven sleepless world.
A world that a 50 year old artist who doesn’t drink or take drugs and is overly sensitive and a tad depressive, doesn’t belong in.
However I tried. I sat with a group of people sniffing vodka, fast living city people, and I let myself be carried along in the mania. My reserve and cool crumbled and I played and felt manic then I was castigated for it.
Now I want to go home but my train ticket isn’t until tomorrow and I can’t sleep and I’m still listening to the woman outside talk to the object of her affections.
The lump remains throbbing at the back of my throat and I’m hurting and I’m wondering if I’m a better person for feeling like this. I just need to ride through it. My world is shaky but the foundations are still there, but my core isn’t resilient and I have that old old feeling of needing to run away and hide.
I’m thinking maybe I could pack my suitcase but daylight is hours away and I’m safer on this mattress writing, than walking through late night early morning London streets dragging my possessions around.
I’m so tired. Just want home. The woman outside is still saying her long goodbyes, and I’ve just done the same via text and god how old am I, how tired am I.
I don’t necessarily feel better but the lump of pain in the back of my throat is smaller and I feel the approach of sleep, though I still think that maybe I should pack to calm myself.
Put my possessions in order, in preparation for tube rides and train rides and bus rides. Thinking about unlocking the door to my house, and the dogs greeting me with love, then going into my shed to complete the art work I started before this trip.
Thinking about that and the lump fades further.
I’ll unpack my bags, do my laundry. I’ll stand under a hot shower and wash London and the rich petulant businessman off my body and out of my hair and down the drain.
I’ll curl up on my sofa, a dog on each side and sleep. Sleep it all away.
I’ll sleep away the undermining and the mistakes and the games. A dog under each arm, loving me unconditionally.
12 hours and counting until I’m there, until I’m safe. The lump of tears has faded, the woman outside has finished the phone call and her multiple I love yours are still floating in the air and up to the window that I’m hanging out of, having another cigarette.
I breathe out the smoke, and squint so I see the shape of her love utterances, and I try and breath some of them in, but they belong to someone else.