Welcome home

“Which way to Victoria?”

“I, er… I’m sorry, I’m not from here and I wouldn’t know”, even though I do, but the fear’s grabbed a hold on me. The seconds ticking by heavily and I have a horrible dread and a hope for no more questions. A rush, a warmth, a current and yet no sign. The repetitive, clockwork, tireless system pulsating around, never stopping and you’re still not here.

“Is this the right line for Soho?”

“I really sorry, I don’t know”, the words almost sound believable. Almost, although they are this time around. The messages are still unsent, but even though I know you’re not here, you’re not even near here, I’m still needlessly fumbling to refresh every single second to avoid yet another confrontation. Another rush comes, a mob of lives with things to do, places to go, people to see, plans to make. The plans I need to make with you, the people we need to see, the places we need to go and the things we need to do. The back of my neck is warm with sweat at this point and each and every gust makes me shiver. At a final breaking point, the messages turn to read.

You’ve arrived at your destination, welcome home.

I.M. Wilson

I had this piece sat around for a while, I’m still not convinced that it’s finished and I hope to revisit it one day. I like the partial ambiguousness anyway. Enjoy.


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