Work In Progress - New Year, New Post

I sitting at the bottom of the grey expanse of stone steps reaching into the mouth of Waterloo station, a bustling terminal spewing people and eating them at the same time; a yawning maw of carved granite. Even among all those faceless faces you spot familiarity. Y’know what I mean? A streak of blonde hair; a flicked brolly and discarded paper fluttering from hands while eyes look away, not bothering to notice any detritus – paper or otherwise. They never see me, me think-so. ‘Cept one.

It’s like she knows me somehow. But those drug-fugs made me wired different now, in the head-like. She could be anyone: Mum, nurse, counsellor, fellow Issue-er selling-type. Or none of ‘em. Prolly all. I recognise her every day she come by, not just ‘cause she smile at me or drop jangling, clanking coins into me cup or press crumpled, soft paper into my grease-streaked, pavement-stained palm – paper with The Queen’s head on. For none of that; she just familiarity in clothes, her heels click-clacking on the concourse as she approaches me. Sometimes, if I’m still sleep in me bag, she gently shakes me, drops coins or paper and walks on; sometimes she just leaves a note or two. I don’t know her name, but I do. Weird-like. As I say: familiarity in a skirt. But not today she isn’t. Today, like yesserday, she gone not here. The last of her coins slump in my cup, which not floweth over my Lord. She prolly found out ‘bout me, ‘bout me past.

Which is good. ‘Cause I need someone to explain it to me. I been trying to blottit out, even the suck-cesspit, like I was. Back in the day. Back when they called me Alan, when I-ad a name.

All just memories I forgetting, all just a river of my thoughts flowing to the sea of forgotten. I’m just kidnapped by the current.