Two One Three: Prologue

Read along with me for a while.

What I'm quoting here is the beginning of something, a prologue. It's from the spring of 2012. The girl who wrote it is...well, names don't matter. And these days she's no longer the girl who wrote this. This is from a previous life, a previous iteration.

But read along with me.

I can't explain this accurately or in a way that makes sense. I only meant to tell you I'm obsessed with pageantry. I choose my running routes or the tube carriage I sit in because of the men. It's like, I orbit around them or they're orbiting around me and the gravitational pull increases the closer I get. I'm approached and talked to and whistled at all day. All day. All day. All day. It exhausts me and fuels me and then I exhaust myself...

Now I'm teeth biting the concrete. 

Now I'm face shoved into the pillow. 

Now I am back against the alleyway wall. 

Now I am ass-up and torn. 

Now I am searching for my next hit.

No room for love.

I'm not the kind of girl you'll be seeing in the morning.

Nobody controls me, but I am under control.

No one writes like this any longer. The girl who wrote this erased  seven or eight years of her life, erased her life from something like 2007 to 2014. She's someone else now, someone whose life is about upward mobility and professional-class domesticity. She doesn't write like this any more; she doesn't recognise herself in her stories.

No one writes like this any more. There's no dark allure, no sense of late-night confessionals, no sense of the power of desire and dark exhilaration. I really have no idea of what stories are being told late at night these days.

Read along with me. Tell me about what's being confessed in the dark nowadays. Tell me about what the nighttime city is like these days. Tell me what happened to the stories from other times and other lives.