I have issues with expression. Most days I encounter a moment where I compare how I’m feeling with the bodies I move past. For example, a postman just hurried past me. Is he questioning his role in society or place on Earth or is his only concern getting his round delivered? The guy in the local shop who has never worn a smile in the years I have lived up the road from him. Has he ever harboured ambition or happiness? Marvelled at how quickly winter woke from the golden ashes of autumn? Or is he really so placid that he can sit in there, playing on his phone, awaiting the day to end so the same thing can begin tomorrow?
There’s a set of voices that take it in turn to talk to me and carry out conversations below my surface. I can be walking the roads I’ve walked since I was a boy. Slowly acclimatising to the beginning of winter on my recently woken skin. My earphones play songs I’ve used for life support for years, but they barely register. Watching the cars speed up and slow down according to the traffic lights when I reach the main crossing.
The houses to my side disappear. I’m faced with space and sky. The wet, poignant sun struggles with the dominating grey to be the main presence, but does enough to make my next breath the first of the day.
My earphones take affect. At this junction whenever I play music a song will be playing right at its most heightened, when the singer breaks away from any covers and bares a soul. I’ve wanted to cry on this stretch of concrete so often. Inspired by the undiluted honesty of these singers who break me and then proceed to build me back up.
I ask myself if this is normal.