I see your eyes as I walk past. This is a normal night on a normal day in London except those don’t really exist for me. This is, somehow, actually the truth. Unless I’m moving something onwards I find it hard to live with myself. At no point am I really aware of when I realise that you, so dear to me, are, fundamentally, lost to me. I realise you’re more than one person. Have I moved too far? I think I have but I’m in terrain that I don’t know and the only thing is to continue. That is: you can’t go back because the past, and what you left behind, no longer exists. You kick sand over your tracks to live. They can’t find you here: can they?
Sometimes I look out of windows and see the landscape. Sometimes all you see is a window. What you think you see is what you thought you think you see: the past incontrovertibly bends us to its sepia will. There is no moment that can be conceptualised – that can be turned around as a concept, like a piece of glass, a diamond – that is not historic. I gasp for air as the realisations dawn thick and fast.