It is my last day of walking up and down Barnes, judging the arrogant, slick and red banker faces and expensively moisturised face-lifted yummy mummies. My last day of admiring the trees who have had me cry to them when black hail storms pierced into my being, and been climbed by my six-year old self. My last days of being slowly chipped at like the bird food, watching pieces of soul fall onto the floor, picked up by angels, both light and dark.
One fat, grey, and beautiful angel comes to me with a piece of my father’s soul. It doesn’t belong to me, I affirm, though it seems not to speak my language. So strange, that what does seem to belong in me is another mandala, from another tree. The one whose branches are lands surrounded by a lighter blue. I already catch wafts of its warmth, seeping from the future into the barren-cursed corners of my own mandala. I’m fine with curses because they are no different to blessings; they both point me to the same place.
Many things though are clamouring for the other direction. For example Gatwicks’s duty free gauntlet run, where my nostrils are assaulted on all sides, for longer than ever before, by Hugo Boss, Dior, Calvin Klein etc. And then yet more assaults, this time on my sense of happiness with what I already have, by the tech shop. Lured into trying a pair of Bose QuietComfort noise cancelling, wireless headphones, available interest free for £43.45 per month for 6 months, I contemplate buying them. Yes I did just receive a text informing me I just went into my overdraft again, but these headphones are very comfortable. Thankfully I do manage to make it to the gate of the delayed Wizz air flight without succumbing to either the Bose or the new Hugo Boss Reflection Eau de Toilette; the bold new fragrance for the man who strives to live his own truth, every day. What an inspiring slogan.
Inspiring in the sense that it inspires the will to eradicate the fucking bullshit commercialism that every year extends it’s Hydra tentacles further and further across the world. Fuck you - that’s what it inspires, to all the world's advertising minions. Though they aren't separate from the thing in me that wants you so badly it buries itself in my heart so deep I can no longer feel it. I know it’s the same thing because it operates under the same delusion; that the heart's empty space can be filled with anything other than itself.
