An Establishing Shot.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower — Albert Camus.
I moved to London less than 2 months ago.
After a gradual process of adjustment, I am beginning to get into the flow of life here in the heart of British soil — and as such, I feel ready to begin telling the story of my experience here, to document life in the city of London from my own perspective; as a means of processing what I learn and discover as I explore this most rich and fascinating cultural hub as deeply as I can, and as far as fate pushes me.
To be a free man, one must first seek to understand himself within his surroundings, I strongly feel. Then, is this not my duty given the great gift of life? I think not a duty, perhaps, but an oppurtunity.
This post then, will set a foundation for a story that will continue on — an establishing premise for the next chapter of the Photojournal.
As for the travel material that I am still yet to curate, I will still produce a few travel articles over time — as a break from the necessary monotony of the chapter I am now embarking on.
In this piece I will use poetry, that of which I usually pen down in my journal during long shifts in the coffee shop, in order to convey my inner experience of moving to this vast metropolis — so different and alien from the warm community of curious travellers that I so often experienced during my extensive periods in the Asian and Southeast Asian regions.
rolling, rolling, rolling
cold starry nights
and long wet afternoons
pathologically bored
I step
outside
a daze of rain and flashing lights
I watch
my shadow
in puddles
gazing at me
heavy eyelids
and a soft light seeps in
my feet
hit the pavement
tap
tap
tap
on and on
like stones
deep november
her shallow breahts
her gentle leaves
falling
a long
silent stream
seeping downwards
purple fragile love descending
who seeks
to be
forever whole
in a world of
fragments
running on the fabric of grey vaporous fields
woven by the unknowable
to what end?
a door opens
a dark grey figure
obscured by soft radiant light
a gentle deep
mist
rising
the endless nostalgia of the unknown presence within
further
further
in the whirlpool of unknowing
they spin
seeker
grasping at dust
a maze of empty streets
each corner
the same as the last
a gritty deep
grey
a silent storm
he walks
alone
not lonely
for the night resides in him
a blissful black isolation
dark flowers in a silent dawn
adjacent fields
eclipsing
summer nights
spaces between clouds
and the rhythm
of nothingness
exploding
Axle.
