During the years that followed I attempted to retrace the footsteps I had taken, to prove to myself that those often-winding pilgrimages rummaging along fort-sinister complexes, usually chancing a serendipitous tan from lingering pleasant, beige sun-dribbles, were authentic, and not a post-edited meaty fakewish. Surely a man is mad if he does this and knows it is futile? But I enjoyed it on some level, I was invested in a journey inside residual hankerings, while wading underneath flimsy, degrading lamps that were sparsely lit anyway along noise-harbouring passageways, the gentle lightstrings dousing my slow-paced shadow in a pathetic, fitting washing-away tone.
Completely submerged in the deepest, bowel-of-city boroughs, august eveningsun flowed over my features as I already felt as though I’d become a Polaroid-grainy, image version of myself, evaporating into the coppery pre-night. Landscapes politely welcoming me on my almost-empty calmbus zigzagging around the southerly quarters before making that delicious, unexpected rise out of the overpeopled city to the hilltop viewing points, and a solid platform to witness all those memories of gloriousness, emotions, big and small, pilfered and hoarded by the epic-zones, and now embodied wholly in the vistas, their spires, relentless work towers, domes, palace-like residences, and hazy bridges, all tangible, displaying the resonance of the tumult.
© Copyright 2018 John Maher