Eternal layer of citymist

Now I’m prickled by the fore-shadow again. I’m certain I’ve reached the tangle of streets where I once flourished in my daily games, however deadly, however barren. But, incredibly, I stutter. My legs take on a wobbly feature – I’m amazed that I should offer any level of resistance to myself, but it’s happening. On one hand my foggy innards tell me that my treasure trove is just here, that there is perhaps no more time to wait and I must rush into it while the chance exists.

Yet there’s a barrier. I sense it as much as the lure of the city’s inverse, as much as that shelter I’m adamant I glided through in some calendar-less, uncategorisable past. It’s unprecedented self-censorship but one guess for my reticence is that I’m wary of glimpsing and then losing sight of some desirable capsule again. I know I couldn’t cope with the fleeting brilliance, not again, not with such flimsy assurances, not with a past littered with dashed endeavour.

But maybe, maybe... even in this proximity, efforts are muddy, and the place that I want to believe exists is covered by that eternal layer of citymist. Maybe, maybe... beyond now. Going. Down a skinny car-less alley, past and away from the bookstore (I remember it to be that without seeing it, save for a paled-out caramelly shimmer, half-colour bulbs under the perma-drizzle). And now into another alley, heralded by an archway above which is insignia unique to these boroughs, or more accurately these streets.

Edwardian fonts. Unabashed grandeur. Further through, and, with fantastic improbability, an even smaller cove, distant from the fountains, which are within reach. An altogether other stomping ground. It’s as I remember, all those years ago, it has an ear-clattering silence, a refracted sound, a nagging difference to the everyday battle choruses.

It layers a fog-stained scramble. Just for a second, I bliss out in it. I almost believe I’ve already made it back into the precious harbour. And also I’m ready to bask in the pre-glow forever, in the feeling of anticipation, because I recognise the pain that followed the wait, too. But still. It is time. That terminal opportunity to remove that hurt forever, or at least to see if that’s possible. I am going in, going... there’s a tremble, an ever bigger hush. Going... I lift the lid. I see it. The other side. One glance back, then I’m nearly swept in by the perma-fogs.

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