September, September, September. Non ti ho mai amato.
The end of infinite joy, and the blow to the brain of a broken promise.
Monotony and repetition and boredom and more repetition and Mondays and even Tuesdays and repetition and deadlines and obligations and restrictions and still repetition and tube strikes and mind the closing doors and Downing Street is unpopular and living wage equal wage minimum wage wage and ever more repetition awaits.
Stepping stones to an opportunity for a chance to perhaps pursue an application to a lottery that may or may not lead to an item worthy of a CV.
Job satisfaction long forgotten.
Place of your own long abandoned.
Chasing your dreams long since soured in your mouth, never left the tip of your tongue, never more than a fairy-tale phrase – the once upon a time, the happily ever after of your hovel of a castle in which you have a bed and a cupboard and no drawers and a lightbulb and no curtains.
Disappointment, thy name is London.
And yet, we are the lucky ones.
We are the few.
Where are the refugees names immigrants we left to starve or drown or freeze to death on our doorstep?
Where are the African tribes we plundered and pretended to empower purely for political gain, and then abandoned?
Where are the people – who ARE people – whom our “people” rejected when they sought help?
British pride is no more than British snide comments waiting in line for our privileged (if over-priced) bus to take us to our privileged (if under-paid) jobs.
How are we so broken that we see injustice everywhere but where it’s worst?
Broken of brain and hardened of heart and ruptured of reason and I’m starting to believe that hope is lost.
The heart and soul of London has lost its heart and its soul.
Looks like rain.