“You wanna go home”; a stirring moment in a song by Pulp defines my wish as I hover around a confectionary store between my train connections.
But home has long since merely been an idea, indefinitely dislocated by the dread and anxiety that pursues me.
I gave in, badly today. Binge eaten on Flapjack, about 7 now.
I feel free, free of the world when I’m stranded in transfixed excitement at all the flapjacks I can finally fail myself with.
A decision-making paralysis is a welcome break from acting in this world. Until the shopkeeper starts to follow me, believing I’m shoplifting, presuming I’m stealing to feed the whatever emaciated me.
Ample evidence here. Avoided in the streets by hooded-gangs who think I offer them nothing, and beggars who think I’m one of them.
I’m an addict. My addiction is embarrassing.
It’s my little world, but here is where it must crumble, on this final train trip…
…In the final crescendo of the year, the Vortexual allure in the hook of a pop song on all TVs. Hey Yah by the Outkast is the end of years’ desire to race to the finish line, hoping to make the arrival. Chiming with the startled transfixion of an addict’s state, caught between commands to act, and do, but preferring to remain frozen between moments, because if I freeze still, the life I do not want cannot spot me.
Still waiting for my life.
John B Ledger 