We are all in it for the journey aren’t we? I mean we don’t have any choice. You sort of wake up on the train of life, and then some guy comes up to you and out of nowhere says, “Ticket please” which on this journey means “What’s Your Purpose” and you are meant to have an answer. Something crisp and concise, but really I don’t have an answer so I just nod and pretend to be civilised. At home I play music, and drink vodka from the bottle and shout out things like “Screw you” at the wall, which maintains its indifference to my tortured angst. At home I’m free to be lost because no one is watching.
Don’t you love that word “Angst?” it gives the mundane a sense of drama don’t you think, so that’s my new identity. Out at evening college learning to paint, and mouthing phrases like “Social torture” puts you in the middle of the circle: a bit like work, but in a different context if you get me.
That college is where I met Angela, who was shy enough to make me feel protective, if you can feel protective but still want something from someone. I mean I wanted to kiss her, because that’s natural isn’t it, and she is pretty enough, but not so much as to make her scary. Nice eyes of course, because you have to say that don’t you? I’ve never heard anyone say a girl was really pretty but her eyes were like flat tyres, unless she was planning to jump of a cliff, in which case it wouldn’t matter. Mind you Angela really does have nice eyes so I can say that without lying. I tell the truth about facts, but most of them are boring aren’t they, but the heart of it, the breathing purpose of life: I have no sense of that.
Someday perhaps, some mystic giant will walk out of the corner shop late at night, as I am passing by for no real reason, and say “Phillip Walker. You are born to rescue blind cats,” but till then I’ll keep my purposes short and near at hand. Kissing Angela’s a start don’t you think? Perhaps I’ll ask her for a drink after class on Wednesday. She doesn’t look as if she knows what is going on either.