top of page
Nowhere Land

---------------------------------

Chapter I

Origin Story

 

The darkness hums. 

It buzzes gently, 

 

the carpet breathes. The streetlight outside 

splits the blinds silently. 

Stripes of artificial light somehow make the darkness more dark. 

The shadows smile 

in the damp cold corners of the room. 

 

The nighttime. 

Alone.

Daylight. Today is lead lined, scratchy throated, wool in the skull. Low sunlight, the hum of a vending machine, the absence of any kind of human interaction. Peripheral chatter, through frosted glass. A world full of enemies. Profound loneliness. Deeply uncomfortable.

Nighttime. Again. 

Sometimes            the quiet goes

Through me like a knife 

 

Suddenly I’m confronted with your absence

And

The silence drives that home 

 

The sharpest moment of clarity 

 

Those seconds last for hours 

 

Don’t move. Get up.

 

Get up.

Morning. 

Again. 

The fear creeps in, like the 

Road noise and the chatter and the 

Banging of pans from the other room.

So much space between the earth 

And the sky, empty cold air, 

No darkness to nestle 

Under;

No you.

These moments are the hardest, the Cold cold light of day

I might die here in bed. Waiting. Hiding. Some kind of death; a quiet disappearance. A gentle withdrawal from everything and everyone. A crumpled stained quilt, golden light licks the black mould on the windowsill. Another day down. Another day, down. 

 

I hope you never see this.

Nowhere Estate

Nighttime again.

 

Daytime again.

 

The nighttime.

 

The daytime.

 

Again and again. 

 

 

Im not entirely sure I’m here anymore. Admittedly the absence of that initial screaming, paralysing grief is welcome, but with it went any proximity to feelings of any kind. I have not smiled for weeks, not laughed for months. I can cry silently whilst googling the weather or commute without watching the road. I can be upstairs without knowing how I got there. I can walk to the newsagents and buy a sandwich in total silence. I can check in on my life now and again, brief observation from the viewing platform, but I can’t tell you where I am the rest of the time. 

 

I won’t. 

Daytime.

 

I drove to the coast today. Across empty farmland and nowhere towns. Straight over at every roundabout, a lonely procession to a winter seaside last resort. The amusement arcades pump empty pop across the concrete, the bus stop stares back, unmoved. Boarded up cafes sleep through the afternoon, crazy golf courses become monumental graveyards of plastic castles and fake palms. The rides on the pier look out to sea, stoic, tired and creaking in the wind. Semi-sentient anoraks plod up and down the strip in silence, the odd abstract figure haunts a window here and there in mute seafront hotels. Big windows for the view; the grey horizon stares blankly back. A Ford Escort marooned in the middle of an empty pay and display. An artificial lake in the rain.

 

On the way to the coast there’s a town. A dead town. It used to be thriving, you can tell from the market halls, the corn exchange and the church. But now it’s adrift, out beyond metropolis, pre-internet and fading fast. Every shop is an antiques store selling fine china in milk crates out the back in the drizzle. The people that used fine china abandoned the town long ago, the people that replaced them don’t need it. They’ve got flags. St George’s crosses and Ariel bold on plastic Union Jacks. ENGLAND they shout, in Comic sans, to the empty streets and closed down pubs. Functional, tangible things must go. Ideas will fill the plates of the hungry, national pride will quench their thirst. A longing for an imagined yesterday will need to lift today, and tomorrow, and every day until it’s all finally gone.

 

Hiraeth; 

 

A deep longing for a home one can’t return to

 

Or that never was

Nighttime again.

 

Let me disappear in nowhere land. Brief appearances in faded towns, a silent pint in a flat roof pub, a nod and a smile in a no-brand newsagents. Anonymous, lost and contented. Existing purely in the gaps between places. Between destinations. In permanent transition but too wise to ever arrive. 

 

I’m tired.

I want to be new 

---------------------------------------

Chapter II

Servitude

 

Months have gone by.

 

 

The feed serves relentless calls to action. Everything about me must be changed. I have been found wanting. And I do want. I want so badly to be these things, these upgrades sold to me in an infinite carousel of unsolicited advice. Of instruction. And I want so badly to not be the things that I am; surplus, inadequate, benign. I am nothing and through servitude I will become something. 

 

I can imagine my pale flesh, solid and tanned. I can imagine myself capable and unfeeling. Stubbled. Muscled. Stoic.

 

 

What cruel systems kept me where I was? These luminous personalities, filling their T-shirts, are not crushed by it in the way I have been. What do they know? How can I know it? 

I wish I was broader. Stronger.

New regime 

 

You should try a 

 

New regime 

 

Try

 

A new regime 

 

New regime 

 

Better healthcare 

 

Clean your teeth 

 

Careful out there 

 

Put on some weight 

 

Quiet despair 

 

Bicep curls 

 

Vanity fair 

 

British rail 

 

Attractive aupair 

 

Don’t retreat 

 

Ligament tear 

 

Social club 

 

Losing your hair 

 

 

Try a new regime 

 

Look after yourself 

Have some self respect 

 

Try a new regime 

 

Letting go

What did you expect 

 

Try a new regime 

 

Working weekends