Crash

it's this familiar sensation again. the aftermath - the comedown. before this: days, hours of anticipation, moments of disappointment, fury, brightened spirits, surprise, and that select, untouchable half-hour where i get all i hoped for and more. soaking in my surroundings, absorbing every moment, mourning every missed memory. the point where i feel like i truly belong, that this could be me, if i only work hard enough to stay here. timing is everything, tact is crucial. exhausting but rewarding. probably. and afterwards, the secret grin, the miniscule self-hug, the silent thanks.

and then the downward spiral. the necessary excursion back into reality, the wistful car journey, where every minute is another mile is another moment is further away from where i was half an hour ago. another millisecond away from you. leaving the city nightlights, going over my casual glorification in my mind - where did i score, hit the mark, steer the conversation on course? can i do it again? so perfect. it was so good. wasn't it?

and now the aftermath. re-entry on earth in 3 minutes ladies and gentlemen, please ensure you have all your personal belongings with you when you leave the train. surrounded by bleak primark-clad saturday routine, but somewhere else entirely. wedged in an alcove on the number 73, cloud-risen by circling birds, stupidly high, piercing the stratosphere, still lodged in vehicular motion down the euston road. spiralling out of control above piccadilly, every step a yet more dangerous launchpad that sends me arching further above the ants beneath me. a tender thought, a greedy devouring of yesterday's memory. the retelling; the shattering of the illusion. once it leaves your lips, it no longer exists; this bubble dwells only in silence. then close your eyes again: involuntary, natural, perfect soaring, anchored yet untethered. sweet, tragic, bitter perfection; surrounded by people, noise, life, in utter silence. you cling to everything you remember, you retell and respin it to strengthen, preserve, immortalise it: gossamer transformed to iron, utterly wrong, hard, inaccurate, insufficient. and the circling of the birds always takes you back up, up again, further up, higher than could possibly be real, before releasing you like a feather.