I have realised and vindicated to myself the supposition that London and its output is, in part, beautiful because of the bleak despair and isolation of its artists and depressives – the ones who have learnt from this harsh bitch that they can and should not rely on the support or consolation of others, but continue wholeheartedly into the abyss of relentless thought, creativity and observation.
London destroys and alienates many, but upon others it forces a sense of gratitude for the everyday; the way a matrix of scaffolding catches the light from a streetlamp or the foreboding of a damp alleyway as it recedes into deepest black.
If she asks me why I came home so late, I’ll reply that I was celebrating the fact that my shoes had finally worn in…
The most attractive of London’s attributes is the knowledge that she will never miss you if you leave, will never expect a postcard and will fill your space tenfold with fresh victims even before you breach her boundaries. She is a beast, there to reward the wicked and swallow up the weak. She breathes not oxygen but booze into your lungs, leaving you with a heavy lack of energy, and before this, a fleeting gasp of transitory, futile enthusiasm which is cruelly ripped from you by the next morning. So few eyes fall upon you, therefore your own eyes grow cold, preferring to stare upwards to where the corners of her edifices meet the grey, polluted sky; one of the few gifts she gives you gratis is this twisted geometric ballet; heightened by affordable caffeine based beverages – if you are strong, if you are weak then the drinking houses become part of your weary trawl home and the cigarettes you smoke will be the healthier of your 2 to 3 fold narcotic addiction.
I stand on the train, scribbling like a maniac and thank god London, no-one cares.
Inspired by ‘London’ by Patrick Keiller: