I ate'nt dead.
And I'm off to England.
I've been fixating on this for so long; pinned so much hope on coming again to England; locked away so many memories, postponed so many thoughts of joy; allowed myself to imagine the end of ordeal, the end of two grey years, and such felicitous schemes, such fêtes, such debaucheries, that when the moment finally arrived, I did not know what to feel. There is an emotion, huge, but I can’t quite put a name to it.
It’s like how a wave starts out at sea: the force moving through the water is enormous, but invisible in the depths; but when it reaches the shallows before the shore, it rears up, and crashes onto the shore in a tumult of foam and noise. I’ve crashed into the moment, and am quite lost in the resultant violence.
Anyway, I’m being churlish: a holiday is a holiday. I’m flying into London, which I shall do more thoroughly this time, and then it’s northwards to York, to pretend I’m in university again. I’ve been dying for a Browns sandwich for the past two years, and also: a hot roast sandwich, proper fish and chips (both from High Petergate, if I remember correctly, but whatever, I navigate conceptually), and Langwith Friday dinners. More than anything, I want to just sit down and be for a while.
I might not post at all, so caught up in rediscovered delights; or maybe incessantly, said delights multiplied shared.
Please nobody call my handphone: SMS me enviously instead.
I’ll come back with gifts.
I've been fixating on this for so long; pinned so much hope on coming again to England; locked away so many memories, postponed so many thoughts of joy; allowed myself to imagine the end of ordeal, the end of two grey years, and such felicitous schemes, such fêtes, such debaucheries, that when the moment finally arrived, I did not know what to feel. There is an emotion, huge, but I can’t quite put a name to it.
It’s like how a wave starts out at sea: the force moving through the water is enormous, but invisible in the depths; but when it reaches the shallows before the shore, it rears up, and crashes onto the shore in a tumult of foam and noise. I’ve crashed into the moment, and am quite lost in the resultant violence.
Anyway, I’m being churlish: a holiday is a holiday. I’m flying into London, which I shall do more thoroughly this time, and then it’s northwards to York, to pretend I’m in university again. I’ve been dying for a Browns sandwich for the past two years, and also: a hot roast sandwich, proper fish and chips (both from High Petergate, if I remember correctly, but whatever, I navigate conceptually), and Langwith Friday dinners. More than anything, I want to just sit down and be for a while.
I might not post at all, so caught up in rediscovered delights; or maybe incessantly, said delights multiplied shared.
Please nobody call my handphone: SMS me enviously instead.
I’ll come back with gifts.
