1: Thomas Hornigold
Shelter
Watch them as they scatter, see them as they fly. The sudden unison of it: as if controlled by one mind, one hand that plucks them all from the ground. I’m overcome suddenly with glee and this is the bonus: hold yourself close to the flickering fire and all you become is shadows, on the cave wall, a half-remembered philosophy. Countless worlds whisked past you in an instant, dizziness as a defence mechanism, allowing you to believe that each new one is as ephemeral and temporal as the last.
This rush, of course, won’t last: the scurrying of pigeons swoops around the corner and, already, as the last of them – more conservative than his brethren – perches on top of a lamp-post nearby, it’s fading. The shock of it; the illusion of change out of the ordinary: it’s a cheap cinematic trick. All over the city, thousands of groups of pigeons take fright and take flight: the drama unfolding before you is nothing special, it just seems this way due to its proximity. There’s a lie that might make you feel better.
This is the other side of living as flickering shadows on the wall of a cave. Everything is paid for. The light can dance and shift, but the fuel is still burning, and we’re assured that once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. If one region is brilliantly illuminated, the cost is darkness somewhere else. This is nothing more than simple conservation of energy. Eternal brightness at no price is not possible.
As for the one that singled itself out from the flock: maybe it was wise to the prospect of more food where we were, given that we’d unceremoniously dumped the corner of a pasty and caused the feeding frenzy in the first place. The law that little things must live by is “Feast while you can.”
When the flock returns, we make small talk.
“How is it that so many of these poor fuckers seem to lose a foot?”
“Maybe they get hit by cars, or attacked by wild animals.”
Neither of us have any idea about the lives we describe. They are things we walk past.
We’re watching one particular specimen. He has to drag himself around, one foot splayed and useless, grotesquely large. Having watched the others ferociously compete for the tiniest scrap, jumping onto each other in a pecking frenzy, it seems clear that this little thing is no longer equipped with the tools it needs to survive.
You urge me to feed him. I say that it’s better to let him die. Not for him, you say. This is debatable. He contorts to scratch some itch, some parasite that’s eating away at his flesh, without doubt. He goes unfed. I am a murderer, and no-one cares if you kill with kindness or malice.
Bustling through the station on the way back home, I am met by cousins. They find some warmth in dodging suitcases-on-wheels and weary travellers, and forage in the rubbish that spews from the mouths of the franchise fast food outlets. The roaring of trains is the lullaby, the Fentanyl provided by the rancid cheese-substitute, the bedtime-monsters the creatures that roar and rush overhead and smell of detergent.
In dreams I am a small thing, and this is not the shelter that I choose. In dreams I have found a bloodless, painless way to break your sternum, separate the ribs, and crawl into the little space next to the station of the blood. Veins and arteries carry the precious cargo to its destinations. This is the place to shelter from the storm. My lullaby is the drumbeat that keeps you alive, tethered to the earth, and there is no sweeter sound.
Watch them as they scatter, see them as they fly. The sudden unison of it: as if controlled by one mind, one hand that plucks them all from the ground. I’m overcome suddenly with glee and this is the bonus: hold yourself close to the flickering fire and all you become is shadows, on the cave wall, a half-remembered philosophy. Countless worlds whisked past you in an instant, dizziness as a defence mechanism, allowing you to believe that each new one is as ephemeral and temporal as the last.
This rush, of course, won’t last: the scurrying of pigeons swoops around the corner and, already, as the last of them – more conservative than his brethren – perches on top of a lamp-post nearby, it’s fading. The shock of it; the illusion of change out of the ordinary: it’s a cheap cinematic trick. All over the city, thousands of groups of pigeons take fright and take flight: the drama unfolding before you is nothing special, it just seems this way due to its proximity. There’s a lie that might make you feel better.
This is the other side of living as flickering shadows on the wall of a cave. Everything is paid for. The light can dance and shift, but the fuel is still burning, and we’re assured that once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. If one region is brilliantly illuminated, the cost is darkness somewhere else. This is nothing more than simple conservation of energy. Eternal brightness at no price is not possible.
As for the one that singled itself out from the flock: maybe it was wise to the prospect of more food where we were, given that we’d unceremoniously dumped the corner of a pasty and caused the feeding frenzy in the first place. The law that little things must live by is “Feast while you can.”
When the flock returns, we make small talk.
“How is it that so many of these poor fuckers seem to lose a foot?”
“Maybe they get hit by cars, or attacked by wild animals.”
Neither of us have any idea about the lives we describe. They are things we walk past.
We’re watching one particular specimen. He has to drag himself around, one foot splayed and useless, grotesquely large. Having watched the others ferociously compete for the tiniest scrap, jumping onto each other in a pecking frenzy, it seems clear that this little thing is no longer equipped with the tools it needs to survive.
You urge me to feed him. I say that it’s better to let him die. Not for him, you say. This is debatable. He contorts to scratch some itch, some parasite that’s eating away at his flesh, without doubt. He goes unfed. I am a murderer, and no-one cares if you kill with kindness or malice.
Bustling through the station on the way back home, I am met by cousins. They find some warmth in dodging suitcases-on-wheels and weary travellers, and forage in the rubbish that spews from the mouths of the franchise fast food outlets. The roaring of trains is the lullaby, the Fentanyl provided by the rancid cheese-substitute, the bedtime-monsters the creatures that roar and rush overhead and smell of detergent.
In dreams I am a small thing, and this is not the shelter that I choose. In dreams I have found a bloodless, painless way to break your sternum, separate the ribs, and crawl into the little space next to the station of the blood. Veins and arteries carry the precious cargo to its destinations. This is the place to shelter from the storm. My lullaby is the drumbeat that keeps you alive, tethered to the earth, and there is no sweeter sound.