The Drift

Nowhere, perhaps. No-time.
I walked into town this afternoon. The light was hazy, unreal, and slightly hungover, I passed through the crowds of people as if gliding. Buildings in the distance were muted. Slight rumours of fog, or mist.
I had a coffee down on the beach, and couldn't concentrate on the paper because I kept thinking about horizons. I binned the paper afterwards because I didn't want to take it around town with me.
I could find nothing I wanted in town. No books, no albums, no magazines. It was a nice wondering though, through the North Laine, past Churchill Square, along the beach. It was twilight when I returned.
Breathe in.
This air tastes different now.

Smoking gave me the illusion of something I can't quite name. It bought me back down to earth. My thirteenth day without a cigarette. I've only really missed it on mornings like this one. Smoking made drifting more pleasanr.
Now I am adrift and unanchored. What shores shall I find myself washed up upon? I could have walked for miles this afternoon, tried to find that elusive horizon.
Not that horizons can ever be found.
They're lost forever.

Walking to the pub last night, I found myself amongs the streets where I used to live in Buckingham Street. It struck me how pleasant the buildings were (not my old house though, that was as nondescript as my current abode) how elegant and secret and almost regal. Perhaps it was the trees lining the road, the way the path sloped downhill, watched by these old buildings. I noticed a house I had passed by a thousand times before. A detached house, three storeys high, painted white and with a slight mediterrenean feel, as most houses round here have. Something struck me, an odd electricity, almost like the feeling of revelation that accompanies deja-vu. This wasn't a feeling of this present moment happening before. Did I have a memory connected with this house? No, but the house suddenly seemed so familiar, almost intimate. The waxing moon in the sea-blue sky behind it, bare bones of trees.
(the house in the small hours, opening up the building like a dolls house, lamplight in hallways and hallways walking to the ticking of grandfather clocks, sleep and-)
It felt like the memory of a dream rather than anything else, and yet not. The odd thing was I have passed this house numerous times before, and I had barely given it even a second glance.

The House of Bedsits is silent tonight. Deep rivers seem to flow through the stone, and I could close my eyes and drift in their deeps and currents.