After its first week of serious rain to show us that it wasn't fucking about, September turned out to be a confusion month. In parts it was a parody of the ‘heatwave’ touted by the papers, bright with a steady wind turning the stone green sea into a child's drawing of what a sea looks like in their heads. The rest of the time oppressively overcast with a rolling mist coming from the sea making you feel like you're sweating on the edge of reality.
The city has began the process of adding its winter layers. Locals know the season is done when the grand carousel on the beach packs itself into an impossibly small weatherproof ball bound by sailors rope. But not yet, the bunting is still out, the rock shops still trading, and for a while the horses are still turning.
I have no job so am spending most of my time curbing my mind from obsessing about the news or rewatching the Sons Of Anarchy. I honestly don't know what's more dangerous, believing I'm an outlaw biker or I'm a citizen of the world with agency and power that could solve any of the tsunami of shit covering the world if only i can read a bit more, understand what's going on a bit better, just read a few more damn articles. We’ll see what happens first I guess, a room covered in newspaper clippings with red wool connecting them and crudely drawn eyes daubed occasionally, or me getting my ribs kicked out by a stag do that may or may not have been looking at my old lady’.
Brighton, like any city, can feel terribly full, especially when the new batch of students come in, with no idea of the swells and rhythms of the city. But if you want to get away, relief is normally on a few steps away. Walking down the front with that mist coming in from the sea it can be just you, a gay middle aged couple holding hands and with eyes only for each other, and the sustained notes from an alto sax as a man with an improbable afro practises to an audience of calm sea on a warm close day.
I have no idea what I want, a lot of the time I'm lost. A lot of us are. A whole generation stepped of the 2.4 perfect life, career, and vacuum packed kids conveyor belt from school to death. The burden of freedom is choice. When we came of age the Boomers called us ‘slackers’ and we turned indecision into a movement.
Lost is the price you pay from straying from the path and lost we are. Happening on careers by accident, a lot of my peers inventing the jobs that the next generation swap as easily as a snapchat filter. The rest filling our heads with distractions, drugs, buttons to push and things to grab, anything so we don't hear the nagging voice telling us we should be somewhere else, nowhere specific, just not here. I’ll have to address that at some point, but not yet, not while the horses are still turning.