Loss

I woke up today thinking you were next to me, a transition of a lucid dream.

I started in knowing I was in a bunker, wanting to get out.

You were next to me, and knew a way out.

I saw the date – 17 July 1944. I saw it again – 25 November 1788. I knew

So I followed you, seemingly without you knowing.

You kept walking, through the cave, into a colourful haven. I hid behind a wall until you finished losing the guards.

Robots guarded the small opening in which I slunk through, masked by my own arrogance.

You faded into the distance…
I caught up…

You pushed me away.

I fell down and cried.

Never have tears felt so fucking real

Fuck you, dammit, and I hate being a depressive 18-year-old, who’s obviously inferior to 19-year-old-cunts.

Epilogue

A small afterthought to my drunkeness, when I’m recovering whilst awake and contemplating not falling asleep -

I miss the town. The constant ability to stay awake, the stupid annoying sounds of police helicopters hovering over my house to find people in parks and bushes, the shouts of heavily-built pissed yobs along the street while closing my blind in vain to block the wall of artificial light out, the general hectic atmosphere of life just bustling from the crackest of dawn with dodgy dealers on the corners of dark alleyways to the ‘A BUNCH FOR A PAND, GET YER CHERREES ROIGHT NAA WHOIL THEIR CHEEP’ marketplace surrounded by card shops, museums and HMV.

Fuck you Norfolk, I don’t belong here. I belong in the heartiest of all towns, I belong in Ipswich.

Who said their birthplace had no influence on them?