It’s a cold Tuesday evening. I’ve just finished work and I’m once again sat at this same old bus stop, idle.
I’ve known this place my whole life. I grew up looking out of the car window at never-ending plains of horses and sheep, at centuries old churches delicately carved into the town’s foundations, and at Irish waves crashing against the rocks of the beach. But as time went on and the years grew bigger, everything that was once so beautiful to me became a sour monotony. The peace of the countryside that had long upheld my perception of ‘home’ was displaced by the sight of boarded-up shopfronts and strung-out zombies sluggishly making their way through the centre of town. I’d look out, trying to make sense of how it ended up like this, all whilst the dirt of the bench ever so slowly stained my once-white shirt.
Time moves on, but nothing has changed. I struggle to believe that this place ever will.
Directly across from me lies one of this towns many alehouses. On its last limbs, it still has weak-kneed patrons staggering as they make their way outside, screaming coked-up profanities at innocent passers-by. Maybe they’re not angry, or cruel, or vengeful. Maybe they’re just so devoid of anything that the chance of a fight, the chance to feel something, anything, is enough. Otherwise, the rest of their night will consist of a taxi home and a battle against the comedown with the last case of beer they can afford.
Across to my left in some Asda Express car park, black-coated youths who think themselves to be the cock of the village sit aside shopping trolleys and feebly puff on their pink-coloured addictions. After all, there’s nothing else for them to do but attempt to intimidate the seemingly-innocent-but-probably-racist nans. This small town can’t show them life, and their puberty-inflated egos never told them they could love. This is all they know. And when they seek solace, they’ll go to their screens, only to be told that the world is out to get them. They’ll lock their brains away and refuse to let anyone in, ending up dead at twenty-two or still on a factory floor when they’re sixty-eight.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all bad, and it’d be egregious of me not to recognise how fortunate I am in comparison to most, but by God this place is mind-numbingly dull. This town tears your soul to shreds and strikes daggers in your heart, hoping it weakens you just enough that you can never leave.
Each time I’m sat here, the overwhelming fear that I’ll never make it out is crushing, because there’s so much more out there. So much more beyond whatever this is. Somewhere out there, there’s food to eat, music to hear, art to admire. There are wonderful people to meet and awkward first dates to be had. There’s a chance to wake up every morning and be something.
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