I feel the rain pat against my soiled skin, cleansing it in polka dot patches from the muck and grime of day-today. Scents rise up from the gloom. The overexposed sky hurts my eyes so I cast them down to the underexposed ground, searching for a hidden neutral horizon. Blinded by the lights and oppressed by the dark.
I stare across a car park in this cloudburst and, as streams of persperation stream down teh bonnets and over the lights, it appears that all the vehicles are crying. Or perhaps I’ve finally gone too far.
There’s raw emotion and then there is brutal savagery. I’m dismayed at the world and I marvel at its unique power to acknowledge tragedy, embrace and embalm it, but never attempt to fix it. It is easy to be well trained in empathy when you keep putting plasters on cancerous cells. Perhaps the most dangerous human emotion is helpless anger. When you thrash around, missing all your intended targets, until you realise you have slashed open the eyes of your loved one who now pisses out tears of blood from their ruined sockets. Or you turn your fingernails onto yourself, ripping out Shylock’s pounds and hurling them pathetically like the drunk at the coconut shy. I know what I want to do to avenge the 49 dead dancers or the Member of Parliament senselessly murdered by a terrorist; yes mainstream media, terrorists can – and have – been white; but instead I am force fed the impotent clucking of the stupid and the senile.
It’s a call for arms to embrace. Because no one has ever clenched their fist and pointed a finger, closed their eyes and made a silly sound effect, and actually fired a bullet from their own flesh.
I want to shake loose the shackles of those I spend most of my time with these days. To throw them against the walls that they have been chained against for so long, hearing the rusty links break and to point towards a bright light that is completely reachable, attainable… desirable. But it is all for a miserable nothing. I cannot force them to interpret a text they will never understand. I cannot sculpt with only fresh air and promises.
So instead I slouch up to the Man Behind The Glass in the pissing rain. My waterproofs cling to me like a freshly dumped lover, and I know it will be uncomfortable peeling them away. He eyes me suspiciously but lets me in regardless. Everything is empty. The monolith stopped groaning years ago and now sleeps silently without so much as a murmur or a snore. I see vast clouds pass over it without a second glance. I am the lonliest man in six hundred square yards and I’d be happy with six hundred more.
I peel off my waterproof coat and my sweat escapes to swim with the raindrops. Laying down on the wet grass, I can feel myself being absorbed into the dank earth. I can hear the grass growing around my ears and the earthworms chattering away to each other. The rain falls and I lay, spread and starfished, alone and not in love, transferring from solid to liquid and melting into the green. If I cannot be human, I want to be everything else.