Here There

A mirror narrative

HERE

Can't be helped. You're born where you're born. But there's always been a piece missing that can't be excavated. The hand that mum held while we walked through neat little shops, dressed up like a character from a children’s book, all buttoned up and proper. Our ten fingers, interlocked, much too neat. You can’t hold on forever.

I always knew I'd leave and never come back. I’ve waited too long already. Say goodbye to this small cathedral city. Home, only to my family. It sits almost in another time, miles and ages away from the cities of today. Regardless, the streets are clean and there’s always someone collecting for charity. Look in the teashops and you’ll see the party-political far-right sipping and sniping.

I ride bikes over cobbled streets, the uneven ground knowing it shakes me up. I can’t let them get to me - an obdurate family of stones. The people here are painted in the colours of objection. Nothing ever changes.

The market cross looks like something from a Victorian novel; the kind of place Thomas Hardy would have an unthinking clodpoll sell his family, only to regret it after a lifetime.

Technically, I was born here and I can't deny it. I can't escape it. It's inked on the birth certificate and dyed into my garments – a stiff, wool peacoat, buttons on the left and right breast.

The ties that bind are only defined by my age. My home is not my own, only borrowed, and I have nothing which is truly mine.

It's not a city for the young. Perhaps it takes a lifetime of looking back to fit in. It’s a city built on a superiority complex, for people who want to maintain the ways of a time so old it never existed. I can’t take the solemnity of these sanctified streets built around a cross. Where does life keep the noise and the colour?

I have circled the Roman walls year on year; they stand in obstinate refusal to notice the city that’s outgrown them. We trudged, mum and I, fingers entwined. There’s too much history here.

How can I cut all ties? This place will try to hold onto me, like it clings on to its ruins, the city centre intermittently unearthing new fragments. The past won’t be buried, instead being displayed under glass walkways. I’ll never be able to let go of loves lost, weekends wasted, naive decisions and adventures cut short.

Getting away is supposed to be a way to set myself free. How can I change when my compass only points to here? I tried to tilt my axis but the point goes adamantly north.

There's precious little left, and little left of preciousness. I’m counting down the days until I go. Living side by side, such close proximity, the only people I have here are my family. My heart is sore. I think I’m old news to them already. I can’t look back.

I move on. The decades turn.

THERE

The decades turn. I move on. I can’t look back. I think I’m old news to them already. My heart is sore.

Living side by side, such close proximity, the only people I have there are my family.

I’m counting down the days until I go. There’s precious little left, and little left of preciousness. I tried to tilt my axis but the point goes adamantly north. How can I change when my compass only points to there? Getting away was supposed to be a way to set myself free.

I’ll never be able to let go of loves lost, weekends wasted, naive decisions and adventures cut short. The past won’t be buried, instead being displayed under glass walkways. That place will try to hold onto me, like it clings on to its ruins, the city centre intermittently unearthing new fragments.

How can I cut all ties? There’s too much history there.

We trudged, mum and I, fingers entwined. I circled the Roman walls year on year; they stand in obstinate refusal to notice the city that’s outgrown them.

Where does life keep the noise and the colour? I can’t take the solemnity of those sanctified streets built around a cross. It’s a city built on a superiority complex, for people who want to maintain the ways of a time so old it never existed. Perhaps it takes a lifetime of looking back to fit in. It’s not a city for the young.

My home is not my own, only borrowed, and I have nothing which is truly mine. The ties that bind are only defined by my age. Technically, I was born there and I can't deny it. I can't escape it. It's inked on the birth certificate and dyed into my garments – a stiff, wool peacoat, buttons on the left and right breast.

The market cross looks like something from a Victorian novel; the kind of place Thomas Hardy would have an unthinking clodpoll sell his family, only to regret it after a lifetime. Nothing ever changes. The people there are painted in the colours of objection. I can’t let them get to me - an obdurate family of stones.

I rode bikes over cobbled streets, the uneven ground knowing it’d shake me up. Look in the teashops and you’ll see the party-political far-right sipping and sniping. Regardless, the streets are clean and there’s always someone collecting for charity. It sits almost in another time, miles and ages away from the cities of today.

Home, only to my family.

Say goodbye to this small cathedral city. I’ve waited too long already. I always knew I'd leave and never go back. You can’t hold on forever. Our ten fingers, interlocked, much too neat. The hand that mum held while we walked through neat little shops, dressed up like a character from a children’s book, all buttoned up and proper.

But there’s always been a piece missing that can't be excavated. You're born where you're born. Can't be helped.