I guess it's around 3 o'clock, on a rainy and miserable Sunday, mid September, 1982. My hands are so cold I cant even straighten my fingers, i'm slowly starting to lose the feeling in my thighs, and my face burns from the icy cold drizzle. The air is sharp enough to cut glass, and the ground beneath me crumbles slightly with every tiny step I take.
I stumble along the beaten-up old railway track, not quite knowing how far I've walked today. Four or five miles, perhaps? My shoes are starting to look weathered, and I'm pretty sure my socks are slowly turning brown from the muddy puddles I keep 'accidentally' stepping into.
If I keep going for long enough, will I end up in a happy place? I am fed up of feeling so invisible and helpless. I try my absolute hardest to fit in, but what if I was born to stand out? Well...I say stand out...but as I say, I'm totally invisible. I thought that perhaps by trekking for a few hours I would end up somewhere else, not just physically, but mentally, spiritually. It makes sense: you board a train to take you somewhere else. Whilst on the train, you have time to think, you can stare out of the window at the blurry lines of houses you pass, yet you don't think about what's going on in those houses, the lives the people are leading. I feel like one of those houses. People see I'm there, but never want to know about what's going on inside.