In part one of a three-part series, I take you down an overgrown path of wayward thoughts. Like many travellers, my mind is a blizzard of fantastic observations, and open wounds of silence. Life fascinates me. I'm addicted to thinking.
I was recently defuzzing my phone, when I realised their was a trail of breadcrumbs I had left behind on The Trail; a cache of quick notes, squeezed into my mobile phone's outbox by my ageing Gen-Y thumbs. Like a literary version of Innerspace, I thought you'd like to see them.
My neck, that pivot of life now BETRAYING me.
I want to cry, tears of agony.
Release me from these crows.
I'm not. I plea. I'm not.
"Morning commute is silent, but for the alien youth reciting his travel dreams to a pair of feline friends. The Economist. The company report. The yellowing book. Silence, but for the most annoying noise of recycled music from his headphones. As people board, they look surprised that I might be standing with my four brethren, while the galleys are a sea of right-angled calves and thighs — but surely this must be a daily occurrence in a city of 2 million mutes.