fuck those trips to wellingborough.

usually,
when i arrive at the stop for my bus home,
there's a wait.
obviously.
and so,
i sit,
in a shadowy part,
out of direct sunlight,
i a car park some twenty feet from my stop,
and i ponder;
how things used to be.
i grew up in wellingborough.
lived there until my early 30s.
( my formative years ).
so,
sitting there,
observing time, life,people,buses,cars,
pigeons,bastard trees,plants,weeds,and brambles,
i inevitably allow myself to drift back in time.

how things were.
used to be.
my life,
back then..
it's not something that i hanker for.
but it's who i am,
it's WHAT i am.
it formed me,
it SHAPED me,
and i don't like how i see myself.
y'know?
i always thought that if i could have a stone layed,
to commemorate my having lived,
there'd be two words on it,
"I'M SORRY".
and i AM,
so sorry.
to those who knew me,
had any sort of contact with me,
even the slightest,
most tenuous link,
i'm sorry.
for having sullied your world,
the air you breath,
your very existence.
i'm sorry.

and then,
as i board my bus,
feeling so wretched,
i proceed to beat mysef up,
all the way home.

there was a small bunch of people on the bus,
one bloke i recognised from long ago.
used to work with him,
so full of himself,
kept breaking out in song,
a real karaoke-type,
always thought himself so wonderful,
still does.
loud and proud,
popular with women to.

and that's what i don't get.
i'm so glad that i'm NOT like him.
but that's what it takes,
to get by in life,
society expects.
push/shove,
shove/push,
me'me'me.
i just can't do that.
i'm the one with "door-mat"tattooed on my fore-head.
and ther's no halfway here.
give it,
or take it.
and i hate that.

as the bus went through finedon,
the gladstone on one side,
and my dream-home on the other,
i a new developement.
an old factory turned into apartments.
it looks as though there is a small forecourt,
totally enclosed,
surrounded on all four sides,
by apartments.
and the only way in is by using gated entrances with those combination locks.
you know,
you have to put in a series of numbers,
to get in.
i love that idea.
a microcosm.
a world within a world.
i could live there,
have my food,
and anything else that i needed,
to pass my time in this god-foresaken world,
delivered,
and never go out,
ever again.

yes they're probably chicken-coop in proportion,
with paper-thin walls,
but i reckon i could live with that.
room for a bed-roll,
and somewhere to cook my porridge.
what else IS there?
and if/when my life in the bunker,
gets turned upside down,
it could just happen.

dream on eric.

well,
i need to sort my pack-up out,
have my dinner to prepare,
and i've gabbled on,
for way too long.

two more shifts.
then it's weekend.

like it matters. matters.

ciao juicers.

excellent eric

really?

Yes!