Tracks To The Road

Ilford

  02.07.16 

Waiting for something you hate to be over always takes hundreds of pages of nothingness. Nothingness. Emptiness. Blank pages that you are forced to examine stare you in the face and you must look at the same page again and again because the examiner of life knows you want to escape. Knows that there is nothing. Knows that life is nothing. Knows that moments don't last for evermore. Knows that... 'Ilford' is the last stop, your last stop, my last stop. 

'Ilford'

Stand up. Stand up. Shuffle along. The monotonous movement, the routine seems all too familiar but in the familarity, the distance remains because 'Ilford' is not Shenfield, is not home, is not the final calling point on this train but it is for me. I won't be 'calling at Shenfield', I won't be calling anymore because I am becoming a woman of action rather than words. In words, I have slipped away thousands of times, I have been pulled under the currents of the sea taking me into an internal darkness, I have thrown myself in front of trains, pulled triggers. Words don't cure pain merely prevent it from disappearing, the action is the only solution.

The train pulls away. The people filter out to their empty homes. I remain but not for long. Catching a glimpse of my figure, imagine it cloaked in a black bag - artificial like the nature of life.

I step onto the tracks, the tracks that would take me home if I had stayed on the train but home is not home and life is not life and light is not light, there is darkness that fills oceans that storm inside me. These tracks are pathways, they are the pathways that will take me from this nothingness to a life - a life where I won't be living, I won't be dreaming, I won't be thinking because I won't exist. 

Now I stand on this pathway, stand firm, this is the destiny I chose. I chose the one that will be over shortly with the kiss of metal.

Freedom in death.

Rush of air.

Screams.