My father was a cowardly adulterer fond of money, my mother a failed spiritual seeker. I am a combination of the two. There is nothing for me here. I live in this world, but I am not of it. It's as though I was never really here. Just as I destroyed my life in that tiny corner of the world, so I find it ruins across the earth.
There is nothing I could see or do visit, that I could not just as easily not see or do. Uncertain and afraid, always worrying about my foolish soul, how could I be anything other than unfaithful to women when I’m always unfaithful with myself? Living in a foreign town, I can feel inside and outside of society simultaneously. I can witness the act of speech without understanding what is being said. I can drift in the ether and see shadows walking around, going nowhere, sitting in the sun, waiting in hairdressers, chatting over glasses of this or that, waiting outside banks clutching little pieces of paper, shaking hands, drifting home each night to sleep and going to work each day, like blind ants in a line. The galaxies unfathomably evolving for billions of years and us sat down here on a flea-bitten couch, or in a bar or in the park, worrying about this or that, biting our nails, listening to the echo of the hours, the sound of this being thrown here.
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AuthorEnglish teacher from the UK. Living in Granada. Currently working in Doha. Archives
February 2022
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