I have taken ownership of a flat in some distant part of town.
I visit there at dusk expecting to find the place empty. No place I have ever seen before. It's up a flight of steps, large, white, cubish walls, floor-plan is vaguely L-shaped. A feeling of repose or desolation. Reminds me of a bunker or an Arab sort of house. Worse, it has an atmosphere of Oakley.
Inside the rooms are dark. I come to a room at the back, to my left. In here is a bedroom which I want to enter, if only to walk around it, get the feel of it, have the pleasure of solitude in a backroom in a distant flat. The feeling being: No-one knows I'm here, repose, reflection...
Inside are a few beds with piles of cheap unruly blankets thrown carelessly over them. Again, the Oakley atmosphere of bareness and desolation. I see though that in the shadows a figure is lying asleep, at full stretch under the ragged blankets. It's Joe, who it seems has beaten me to it, come hours earlier with a similar intent and stolen my refuge of reflection, repose, and thought...
I close the door softly and head for the adjoining back door. I press the handle softly and the latch gives way. Door is of light white-painted wood. A flimsy back door and there are no keys to lock it.
I emerge onto the back green, strangely soft and reflective. Nearby a dank closemouth. I see, very realistic, the opposite end of the stairwell, choked with litter, the neglected grass. My breath comes out in smoke.
The feeling is merely of reflection, not sadness or hope. I reflect that now I can go to mum's but soon all that may be over... My place may as well be here. No particular bad feelings associated with this. Contemplative, philosophic. No despair.
The painful feeling though is one of distance, an empty space between me and the centre. And then, the crumbling blank-white interior walls.
