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9 September 2019 21:56![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
haptalaonI'm going back to the city soon, and I don't know how to handle it. I've started having...sensory flashbacks, almost, memories of walking down certain streets or particular times of day on particular bridges or little memories, all of them connected to a road or park or pavement.
It's going to be two weeks, and you'd hope the emotion would be "this place I love, for two weeks, awesome!" but that's not the emotion at all, it's more like your ex - the big one, the one that matters, the one you mean when you talk about your ex with a capital letter - asking if you want to go out for two weeks. Heartbreak and lust rolled into one intense, unhappy cry of desire and despair. I want to go home, and have it be my home. I don't experience time like other people do, so it's been somewhat ok so far because my brain doesn't quite understand that this isn't a kind of weekend break and I won't be coming back. I want to go home, and it's not about the cafes and the theatres or even the people I know there, but a mad red love for the streets, their patterns, colours, such an unhappy love, and the way the city is both competitive and unfeeling, a hurtling motion which tosses those who can't keep up and tramples them underfoot, and the sense I get off her of "your sadness means nothing; you failed. If you wanted to be here and were worthy of being here, here you'd be. I've got no time for the left behinds, no time for anyone - ive space on my back for those who can cling desparately there, but it's nothing to me when they fall. I wait for no man. I am travelling somewhere that no one can follow."
Two weeks in the streets; two weeks specifically of protest, so not sitting in a lecture hall or staying with a friend or even visiting tourist attractions; of being right in the heart of the streets that I love, feeling the people and the movement and the strange signs, the street clutter and dust, the imperceptible city, the rushing and halting; what she's like at midnight, what she's like at dawn; I love her best in the autumn. Travelling on foot, here and there, about the city - chance encounters, like lovers kisses, all over her map.
It's going to be two weeks, and you'd hope the emotion would be "this place I love, for two weeks, awesome!" but that's not the emotion at all, it's more like your ex - the big one, the one that matters, the one you mean when you talk about your ex with a capital letter - asking if you want to go out for two weeks. Heartbreak and lust rolled into one intense, unhappy cry of desire and despair. I want to go home, and have it be my home. I don't experience time like other people do, so it's been somewhat ok so far because my brain doesn't quite understand that this isn't a kind of weekend break and I won't be coming back. I want to go home, and it's not about the cafes and the theatres or even the people I know there, but a mad red love for the streets, their patterns, colours, such an unhappy love, and the way the city is both competitive and unfeeling, a hurtling motion which tosses those who can't keep up and tramples them underfoot, and the sense I get off her of "your sadness means nothing; you failed. If you wanted to be here and were worthy of being here, here you'd be. I've got no time for the left behinds, no time for anyone - ive space on my back for those who can cling desparately there, but it's nothing to me when they fall. I wait for no man. I am travelling somewhere that no one can follow."
Two weeks in the streets; two weeks specifically of protest, so not sitting in a lecture hall or staying with a friend or even visiting tourist attractions; of being right in the heart of the streets that I love, feeling the people and the movement and the strange signs, the street clutter and dust, the imperceptible city, the rushing and halting; what she's like at midnight, what she's like at dawn; I love her best in the autumn. Travelling on foot, here and there, about the city - chance encounters, like lovers kisses, all over her map.
