the castle in the forest

Most of the time, i love living in Kings Cross. the noise, the stereotypes, the contradictions, the grit and the grime and the bright lights; it all feels a part of me, knitted deep in my being. Like i was always meant to end up here, living a faux sort of bohemian life. That being said, sometimes this place breaks my heart. It is slowly corrupting me, forcing me to realise that not all in the world is good and fair.

Last night, around 2am, when the moon was high in the sky and the hemisphere teetered in that impossible time between yesterday, today and tomorrow, i was awaken by two people having noisy, awkward, drunken sex. They were squatting down in the alleyway that my apartment windows look out onto; her blonde head was jammed into the cold concrete, his was balding and bobbing up and down. 

The streets were bare, the corners and alleyways sunk in darkness -- a rarity for the early hours of Sunday morning in the cross. A hazy film had drifted over the city as if, without the intense activity of the imbibers, it too had fallen into an uneasy depression. Like usual, my windows were flung open -- it is not uncommon for me to overhear going-ons in the alleyway; when sex is being traded for drugs or the drunk partygoers are trashing a car, i often make the practised call to KX police station, staying awake until the gentle roar of the marked car rolls into vision, and i can unclench my pillow from my sweaty hands.

Back to last night. After they'd pulled their clothes back on, the man and woman slumped against the dirty brick of my building, sticking their feet into the gutter where beer bottles and the stump of cigarettes lay rotting. They talked... no, she talked, wailed, sobbed, swore and shouted. He listened, only sporadically would a drunken slur of 'baby, it's all right. baby, give me a hug. baby..." come out of his mouth.

When you overhear someone else's life story, their sins and hopes and regrets, their time in prison and the 7 years they were abused as a child, you get trapped in a strange mix of emotions. I feel sad, of course, but the sadness you feel when watching a film, or listening to a heart-wrenching song. It draws emotions, but a sort-of detached emotion -- knowing you can't help or fix or totally understand the situation. 

And i feel a little violated too; like i've been forced to read a stranger's private diary. That sinking-stomach feeling when you've been told a secret you know you can never tell. Being witness to such absurdities blackens my heart a little more each time; it honestly all frightens me and makes my little world of books and writing seem altogether rich and terribly safe.

I grew up knowing i was 'lucky'; living here reiterates it that much more. Please don't take for granted what you have; if you are loved and have somewhere to sleep at night, isn't that enough, at least for right now?

ness x