I am, currently, on a train to Manchester for a cheering visit to a cemetery and a few bitter, rain-filled hours contemplating the grave of an old friend. A decade now since he died and I haven't been back to the city in eight of those years. It's not as though he'd know if I didn't bother to show on the ten year anniversary of his death...but still. I couldn't stay away. It seems (implausibly) rude somehow, to carry on blithely with my small, unimportant little life when Manchester is only a few hours away. What's so crucial that I can't spend the weekend up there, visit my old haunts and marvel at how much and how little everything has changed? Nothing. So here I am. Well. Here I almost am, god bless the British rail system. I've actually spent the last ninety minutes trying to avoid the eye of a morose-looking sheep which is standing outside my window. Same sheep, for ninety minutes. We're moving that fast.
From Manchester on to India, to see what might have been. If I'd been a few shades braver or perhaps a few more sheets to the wind. I've bought a return ticket and have appointments made for the week of my return, all of which are tiny, unimportant reasons to return to the grey of London and the drizzle and my empty apartment. But then it's the unimportant reasons which tend to matter most to me. A very English way of thinking, particularly for a man who is not English. I don't like tea, though, so my assimilation is not quite complete.
I am still intermittently heartsick and aching and carrying this hollow feeling in my chest. Perhaps this trip is an escape, part catharsis and part running away and a slightly creepy imagining of what my life could have been like if things had gone differently. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking when I booked the tickets, only that I was a hair's breadth away from selecting one-way rather than return. I know that I'll see her there, too. That there's really no escape from this, no matter how far I run. Perhaps it's just a visit to old friends, to catch up with their new daughter and to help him renovate the ramshackle old house he's bought. Maybe we won't mention the adjacent plot of land where we planned to build a house for my family. Won't talk about how his oldest son is only two days older than my daughter would have been. Maybe I can leave the ghosts at home, for once. Locked up in that empty apartment, behind the door of the spare room.
From Manchester on to India, to see what might have been. If I'd been a few shades braver or perhaps a few more sheets to the wind. I've bought a return ticket and have appointments made for the week of my return, all of which are tiny, unimportant reasons to return to the grey of London and the drizzle and my empty apartment. But then it's the unimportant reasons which tend to matter most to me. A very English way of thinking, particularly for a man who is not English. I don't like tea, though, so my assimilation is not quite complete.
I am still intermittently heartsick and aching and carrying this hollow feeling in my chest. Perhaps this trip is an escape, part catharsis and part running away and a slightly creepy imagining of what my life could have been like if things had gone differently. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking when I booked the tickets, only that I was a hair's breadth away from selecting one-way rather than return. I know that I'll see her there, too. That there's really no escape from this, no matter how far I run. Perhaps it's just a visit to old friends, to catch up with their new daughter and to help him renovate the ramshackle old house he's bought. Maybe we won't mention the adjacent plot of land where we planned to build a house for my family. Won't talk about how his oldest son is only two days older than my daughter would have been. Maybe I can leave the ghosts at home, for once. Locked up in that empty apartment, behind the door of the spare room.
If all goes to plan, the next few posts will appear while I am off gallivanting around Southern India. Of course, this train journey could be an omen. In which case anything could happen, most probably photographs of sad-eyed sheep will show up in their stead.
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