A walk home

I can hear my feet scuffing the pavement over Nuovole Blanche and take a mental note to buy noise cancelling headphones. But then I wonder if I’m more swept away by the music because, although the sounds of the street don’t compliment the music, the combination of the two is soothing.
The stream of consciousness floats into my thoughts, closely stalked by the idea of universality. It’s only because we’ve been discussing it during class. I consider what I’ve been taught and feel the rhythm of my mind match that of my footsteps.
My thoughts continue to flit around like a hummingbird, moving from flower to flower. They move from my monotonous thoughts on what to have for dinner, to my academic ideas on the fourth wall theory – which though mentioned in passing has captured my subconscious attention.
I can still hear my feet as I pass the coffee shops, hairdressers and grocery stores as I continue down hill. My eyes continuously move from the ground, to the sky, to the buildings and into the invisible space where one stares to contemplate. I consider that I haven’t seen any one I live with in twenty-four hours – this isn’t strictly true as we have had brief encounters, just not prolonged conversation. I’ve moved from the slight slope of the hill to level ground and a feeling of walking on something solid washes over me.
I stand across from the theatre waiting for the traffic lights to grant me permission to walk onwards. The idea of a pre- and post-theatre menu seems absurd to me, but I’m not sure why. I don’t attempt to understand. The idea just seems curious. Only for a moment.
It’s time to move. Just as it hits me, the itch. It comes at me like a run away train, taking me completely by surprise. I feel the force of it. It’s there, it won’t leave yet. I can’t get rid of it myself. I narrowly avoid walking under a ladder – holding on to the kind of superstition that determines how I should live.
I get over the incident with the ladder and the pain of the itch comes back. I ponder on how to satisfy this primal desire within myself. A solution isn’t easy to come by. It boils down to to one question – to cheat or to not cheat. I’m not that girl. I’m patient and kind and understanding. Well, that’s what people tell me. But I need this. My feet continue to beat out a rhythm. I keep moving. So do my thoughts. So many options. So easy to get lost.
I’m determined to wait. But I can’t hold out on myself forever. Sex is a thing that calls out to all of us. Once you open Pandora’s box you’re hooked for life. The beast becomes cagey if you don’t keep it supplied with what it craves.
I won’t succumb to it though. I can’t.
My feet are drowned out as the beautiful calm is switched for something that blocks out the buzz of the city street. I’m wrapped up in myself again. Distracted, only by the thoughts of creating a solution with one of three friends – Gin, Whisky or Tequila – in any of the bars my beaten shoes carry me past.
I shake the idea. I find myself at another set of traffic lights and find myself wondering whether I’m imagining thinking in sentences or if thoughts do occur in a structured manner.
I feel the need to write. It’s an itch of a different kind. It’s a need to fill a blank space. It’s a creature I can satisfy. I give into it. I let my boots lead the way to a coffee shop. I think about writing. I think about writing about writing. I think about if it is in the showing or the telling. I can’t wait any longer. The ache to hold a pen is too great, I can feel my finger tips physically hurt.
I pick a coffee shop. Nothing exceptional. Nothing eclectic and full of pretence. Just an ordinary chain, somewhere to lay down my thoughts, where no one will disturb me as I write down these ideas that follow on from something so simple.
And so I am finished. Ready to continue my journey home, replaying Nuvole Blanche, listening to the scuffing of my feet.

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago. I’m really nervous about posting it. Please be gentle.

Naomi

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