I find it difficult to write about because I cannot describe what was not said out loud but only experienced. Lights and shadows and sounds and spectres and sleeplessness. My two-beat rhythmic click. (Walking because I like to walk.) Especially in the city-dark, which is not dark at all but very alive.
It is like taking part in a dance, or maybe becoming a living cell in the city's anatomy. I'm not good enough to write it, and photographing wouldn't do because it is all about the flow. It was being outside myself for a little while, a part of something much bigger.
As I turned left, away from the road, the bells at King's began to call, for a reason no one I asked later could tell me. There was no one on the pavement despite the evidence of life all around me, and the orbs of bright light above my head moved my shadow faster than I walked.
I wanted to walk back from the station on my own for my own reasons, but it turned into a journey of new sounds and of shadows and of tungsten streets. Of feeling isolated but not alone. A good kind of single-ness. A strong and brave one. A contemplative and quiet one. An independent, individualist, life-affirming one. A