Holborn
By Simon Barget
- 241 reads
An icy draft swept down the escalator shaft. He had no choice but to continue upwards. It drew him forth to Holborn.
***
In bland sterile workspaces they galvanised themselves to Misery.
Once, Misery held Love, but Ambition stripped it to a husk. Ambition, the preserve of the elite, saying: I am better, I can transcend. I forge my own path, I direct and have authority. And the rest followed since it paid their way. Within Misery, Ambition was a diversion. It bred Routine. Routine was a structured defence, a barricade. Misery remained intact.
Silence predominated and communication died. Communication to challenge Misery. It didn’t. No one dared, no one spoke. Silence channelled Misery; the collective complaint. Silence, the shell of internal chatter, the interminable cycle of self-abuse seeking to work itself into a resolution. They knew the pain must have a resolution, a meaning and a cause; it had to foster within itself the seeds of its own catharsis. The knowledge gave them hope but it kept them miserable.
***
Don’t even look. Look, but she won’t see you. You can’t look properly so you get back what you project. Your fear gazing back. Find a friend, an ally, a partner, a pet. Find distraction. Palliate but never tackle. Don’t engage. Engagement is ambition, is rule-breaking; irresponsible and foolish. Do not look.
But try for Love. Sit back to receive. Display without trills. Pull down your façade. Don’t overdo. Don’t feel for sympathy, puppy-dog sympathy. Recognise that there’s really nothing to hide. There’s no shame in being. And you will be fine, you are just fine.
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