Hell For The Weekend


I went to Hell for the weekend. Not a break exactly, more a sort of accident, a collusion of circumstances and I found out something interesting. Hell comes in many shapes and forms,  discovering and magnifying your fears, whatever they may be. Mine, it seems, are to be near invisible. To walk along familiar streets, increasingly unseen, until  being lost is no longer a matter of geography but merely circumstance.

All things are foreign: the play will start without you, the meal has been eaten and Hope has gone to bed, until those lines I  treasure “Only connect” become unrecognised.  Walking on through the day, a subject of minimal indifferent courtesies, you are a refugee wandering in eternity:  a man who sees people smiling at each other, bending down to fuss over dogs, before collecting themselves to pass another stranger, knowing the man they always pass is you.

“And what did you do ?” some voice asks you, and you realise the voice is just yourself, trying to remember some act or thought you did. or had, which might engage the hearts of others. It is a twentieth century death, a modern dissolution, only possible in a world of no community, where personal space is the new gold, and invading privacies a global crime.

The wilderness is a state of mind, and you are free to roam it unmissed and unlamented. One of the undead whose movements are not a matter of record and whose epitaph remains unsought for and unstated.

 

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About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in character, community, creative writing, Fiction, Life, Peter Wells, Relationships, Uncategorized, values, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

22 Responses to Hell For The Weekend

  1. ksbeth says:

    this is very sad, and at the same time, very beautifully written. i think that being alive is all about connection, and without it, you are right, we are left drifting out to sea, kept afloat by an occasional piece of driftwood that happens by.

    Like

  2. I sincerely believe that our fascination with zombies has more basis in reality than we would care to admit.

    Like

  3. Marian Green says:

    Reading this is like reading some of my favorite turn-of-the-century authors… I feel like I’m seeing through a mist.

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  4. elainecanham says:

    For some reason I’m always invisible on a train, which means I save a fortune in fares.

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  5. Beautifully written Peter and very sad too. ‘Connection’ has become a meaningless word hasnt it? I often spend a lot of time at home alone these days, which I dont mind too much as I know there will be real people here with me at the end of the day. But on a down day there is nothing worse than an automated voice on the other end of the phone offering me solar panels or loft insulation. The ring ofthe phone no longer makes me smile; it makes me swear, and very rudely too

    Like

  6. mikesteeden says:

    Aside from all the deserved comments of praise for the content of this piece let me praise also the style of writing. It harks back to a time of the classic 20th century writers. Bravo!

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  7. megdekorne says:

    There is beauty in sadness ..xx

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  8. I, too, believe that “hell” is different for everyone and that we live it rather than die for it (if you get my meaning). 😉

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  9. catterel says:

    The Hell that so many people slide into with advancing age, as spouses, relatives and friends pass away – a beautiful and poignant piece, Peter.

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  10. This is truly sad Peter. I do believe Hell is for those who still have lessons to learn. But then again, at times I feel like we’re in hell right here on earth

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  11. This, I’ll have to think about. Hmm…

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  12. A beautifully written piece on modern day isolation, Peter; sad but true.
    It reminded me of what an old Yorkshire friend used to say (the words may not be exact, but the meaning is the same): ‘The whole world’s mad apart from you and I, and I’m not so sure about you!’

    Like

  13. Al says:

    Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned.

    Like

  14. I don’t think all connection is lost but it is how we make the most of it in our day to day lives. I think it is good to start conversations with the barista that makes your coffee or even a pleasant smile to someone passing your way.

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  15. Nothing brightens up my day like a smile from a stranger when I’m out walking in this age “where personal space is the new gold.” Beautiful, Peter.

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  16. There is an element of sadness, and the prose is so very beautiful. The wilderness is a state of mind, indeed.

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  17. r e douville says:

    Well depicted, a circumstance I could feel or even relate to, my private hell being the problem relative in our family. 😉

    Like

  18. I identified with this traveling a great deal for work in strange cites and family far away. Well written and heart felt if you have walked the path.

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  19. Mary Kendall says:

    I’m new to your blog, Peter, yet reading this posting makes me feel as if I have connected with a world in which I’d like to wander. A very touching piece of writing I can relate to very much. Your readers’ responses are also wonderful to read and think about. I think I’ll find other bloggers to follow from your fans. I find this posting very inspiring…perhaps it will lead me where I need to be right now.

    Like

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