I could be many places. Atop a mountain overlooking the vast desert valley, gazing upon the dawn, as pink and orange spill over into her bosom.
Or dressed in designer fabrics in the woods of holly, hobnobbing with elites and washed up rock stars, flexing my sociolect. Where there’s lines for the restroom and lines in the restroom.
Oh how the folly of my youth had been stained with glorious debauchery. But long past is the time of such bohemia. I have taken too much time and the grains of sand erode with age.
I find comfort here among the echos of my city flat. I have wrapped myself up in matted heather grey walls. A nonstop rally of cars whiz by, scratching my eardrum in the dead of my sleep. When I lay my head down, the hum of my heater sings to me a lullaby.
I migrate to dreaming. There I am a foreigner in my native land, hitching a ride on transverse waves towards the abyss of my propagation. Vibrating the fibers of of my desire, waking me parched.
I live in my dreams, breathe there…there where nothing holds me. For when I wake it’s only I and the lonely echos of my beautifully matted heather grey walls.
-Andi C E Smith