Relocate Or Farewell?

It was that time yet again.

Goodbye house. Goodbye street. Goodbye school. Goodbye neighbours. Goodbye friends, let’s try and stay in touch (who am I kidding.) Goodbye crazy pigeon guy who screams at the kids cycling by, actually scratch that last one. But, one thing for sure, goodbye love interest.

It’s that time again where we’re relocating, heading away, or as the mother likes to call it, venturing off to a new wilderness. Well, mother, that new wilderness is New York, Manhatten to be more precise, no not upper, downtown, exactly.

(Really thought we had a chance at sticking around this time.)

The man of the house (el padro) has a new job, no idea what it is, not asking. Mainly because he whisked me away from all that’s good in life, but still, not to derail, New York.

I’ve said my farewell’s to all but one, and now I’m sitting back here as the car ventures into the big robust city. Wheels spinning and the hustle bustle of the city awakes in a roar. Already, I know I’m not going to like it here, but hey ho it’s too late.

Anyway, again I’m derailing and spiraling down my own mind tunnel right now, stop it now. I’m here to say, I’m gunna miss you, that’s a fact.

This isn’t the best way, and heck I should of said all this when I could but my bad. I never had a chance to say, I really like you and I don’t know if you do or don’t really like me, but this is my side and I like to think ‘really like’ is the better side of that.

Farewell I guess, we could have been great together but imagine, we can think back on this in 15 years time and go, wow, that could have been something, maybe.

Maybe’s are what guide us, what make us and what break us, but a maybe is good enough for me. So, from here, I’ll be seeing you and farewell.

Maybe not forever.

Advertisements

If I Were Lonely

Weekly Writing Challenge: Build Your Own

Loneliness is an interesting feeling. It can come and go, but does it truly ever leave you. It clings, wraps it’s cold arms around you and never lets go but perhaps it is wanted. Perhaps we want to feel lonely, isolated, blocked off from the world in which we inhabit.

I’m strolling through these big city streets, the tall towering buildings as they stand above me as if judging my every move. I pass through the people, stepping side to side, we’re dancing. Moving in between. How do I feel alone? How could I ever feel alone in a place surrounded by people, by life. But I do.

I pass them and they don’t notice. They don’t notice my existence, nor their own. Nobody notices each other in these big world’s yet they’re crammed with people to the very brim, squeezing everything they can in. It’s so busy, so full of life that the very life itself pushes against the walls of the towers.

I wonder what I’m doing here, much more suited to a field filled with dreams and outstretching lands but that, that only belongs in a dream where the world has no ends. I open my eyes again. No change. Here I am wandering carelessly through this jungle of people. I stop and I wonder. I wonder on what would life be like if I were lonely?

The New Year From A Balcony

Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door

 

Tick, tick, tick. I’m at this party, drink in hand, lean against the wall minding my own business. I don’t know you and I don’t wanna know you. I stand silently watching everyone as they stand idly chatting to one another waiting for that big zero. Yeah it’s new year and we’re all just passing the time till the countdown. That moment everyone shouts “10, 9, 8” Jesus. Give it a brake. Imagine something drastic happening at zero. Boom. A scene is caused.

People pass me by. A girl. Must be mid 20’s just looks me from the bottom to the top, not in a nice way. Yeah I’m wearing some tatty shoes I pulled from the cupboard from 4 years ago. Yes I’m wearing jeans. Yes I’m wearing double denim. Boom, boom the music plays out. The DJ scratches again. Hip-hop banging. Why’s it always hip-hop? Why do we never have some folk music playing whilst everyone does an Irish jig?

It’s an ugly apartment complex. Down 7th Avenue in West Village. New York city. It’s an alright location but just the apartment. Ugly walls, paintings and photos decorating the wall but it’s all displayed like a museum. “You can look but don’t touch” is what I imagine you could read under every image. A couple stand there staring at the artwork pretending to know what it’s all about “Yes the way the strokes of the brush are, have created an impressionists view of what the world really means” is what I imagine they’re saying. The view of the world. What does it really mean? I can never really tell what it’s all about until that final moment. That final moment of realisation.

Here comes another guy again. “Hey I was just over there and our eyes kinda caught like some….” he says but I just cut him off with a slurp of my drink “I’m waiting for a friend. SO if you don’t mind” I nudge him away. I’m not waiting for a friend. I’m not here with anyone.

There goes the host of the party, I think. Can’t be sure. All I know is she seems to have more knowledge on the ‘fine artwork’ than everybody else does that and she looks like she could stand against the apartment walls and just blend in. She’s ushering the couple onto another piece. A photograph. It’s a black and white one. Attracts the eyes with its contrast of the world. Typical New York setting. Some big buildings with the Brooklyn Bridge to the left. “So heres the typical photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge. Nothing really new here but I like the way it makes you contemplate what life is actually all about and why we’re here.” Is what I imagine her saying to the couple. It’s not. It’s a photo of a well known bridge in New York. Theres no special meaning to it.

The countdown. A firework in the distance. Explosion. A bit early I guess. NINE, they all scream. EIGHT, they get louder. I drown it out. Walking over to the balcony to get a less bland view instead of some obscure inside apartment building of what a boring persons mind must be trying to fight the interesting. I stare at the balcony then the New York skyline. FIVE, it catches my ears again. I stand on the balcony rails. FOUR, they’re building this up now. BANG, BANG the fireworks in the background. THREE. Explosions, colour in the black sky. TWO. I close my eyes now letting the breeze, cold air take me. ONE. Nearly there. They all scream at once but I can’t hear them anymore. I just take a step forward into the abyss. Open the eyes, flashes of colours, screaming.

Theres no special meaning because sometimes life just doesn’t work like that.

She’s Still Telling Him What To Do (A Short Lunch: Day 5)

Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts

I’m here again. It feels like a loop. Back where I began my week. ‘The Best Sandwich’s Around’ reads above the cafe. It’s quiet.

I sit down in my usual spot and take the usual gaze around. Usual. Sip the coffee and I spot that couple. She’s still telling him what to do. He’s still nodding in agreement. Theres a sense of a non-caring expression which echoes upon his face.

I stare at my coffee and swirl it around in it’s cup. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten lunch all week.

On My Desk By Monday (A Short Lunch: Day 4)

Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Posts

 

It feels like a Monday. We all gather as a collective in the queue. Busier than usual as people push and shove as if like school children. I hear in the distance some arguing “Why did you get me this? You know I hate it.” I turn to see the commotion. It’s some elderly couple who hate but love each other. There out of place here as.

Suits fill the cafe today. Bash of the briefcase here. A nudge of the elbow there. All are like robots with a phone attached to their heads. Chatting, chatting down the line. “I want it on my desk by Monday. Do you hear me? Monday!” One shouts as if directly into my ear. Is it not Monday?

Wonder Box

WEEKLY WRITING CHALLENGE: COLLECTING DETAIL

Late at night, after the sun has set over the tall buildings in the West, the moon gazes down as a bright white ball. The gleam from the moon shines across the grey, dull looking pavement. Two shabby worn feet step out onto it. A man, clearly homeless, stands gazing up at the moon wrapped in a hoody covered in holes and with his tattered jeans with the chewed up denim at the heel. He begins to wander through a street filled with huge towering buildings either side which lean over himself. The man looks up in wonder at the buildings and spins at the amazement. He notices the windows of each house. A small flicker of light here and there. He moves in closer mesmerised by these flickers. Shadows and figures. Figures of heads can be made out as he nears the window with shadows appearing at the end of the flicker. Once close enough to make it out he sees a box in the corner of the room away from the window. The figures are all fixated onto the box which expels a burst of light here and there. The man stands looking at the box then at the people, back at the box and then at the people. He turns around to walk away from the house smiling and gazing again at the moon mesmerised by its glorious glow.