The Smack of Reality

Thursday night. Ridng that Amsterdam-bound train once again. First class this time. It is often in the evenings, on the way home, that I'll find myself among the upper echelons of the travelling elite. With more space and more legroom than one knows what to do with, one can relax and unwind.

The days at work seem to get longer and longer. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I will be leaving in one week that makes the hours drag by painfully. These last there days have gone by especially slow. They've felt like double shifts, and I find myself walking out of the terribly boring building, devoid of any architectural creativity, absolutely shattered. Serge Gainsbourg helps me unwind after a particularly stressful day. His serene voice, full of bass, helps me forget about the less than standard equipment at our disposal, and the sons of bitches I am forced to speak to on a daily basis.

And now as I write this I worry about dinner: what will I eat? I'd like to go out for a few drinks, but with a monstrous debt hanging over my head like a terrible spectre, I know that to be impossible. On top of the debt, I have little to no money in my account, and then there's the little detail of the two grand I must thrust forward for these ridiculous reparations my fellow tenants look to make in the spring. If I plan to have that amount saved up by then, it will mean a couple months of not go0ing out, of not socialising, and of not spending money on things that aren't absolutely necessary. That means I will most likely miss some amazing gigs that are coming our way over the next couple of months, namingly Portishead. However hard I may try to get tickets sorted out for the April seventh gig (or a couple spots on the guestlist in this case,) it still may not happen. Shain has informed me that it is very difficult to get press sorted for gigs that are already sold out, so that doesn't make for good news. And to top it off, the chap from JB has also told me that it's going to be a difficult pursuit.

As the train conductor announces Amsterdam Amstel, we coast by the local prison. I peer into the windows, hoping to see a face or a moving body, but all I notice are flickering lights with bare bulbs and no character whatsoever. I look out the window of Amstel station, and glance into their parking lot. Three white buses are lined up against each other, with the name 'Eurolines' emblazoned on either side. Anonymous buses taking anonymous passengers to anonymous destinations. Where do the fates of these passengers take them? Are they taking these buses to get away from their problems, or is it just the opposite? I fear they are taking these buses, and without knowing it, driving into one problem after the next. Or perhaps it's just some transients looking for a ride to the next stop on their European adventure. Travellers. Adventurers of the world. Explorers of the mind. X.