Bankside Anxiety ❋ Shams Hanieh

—

I slither through the static of the city that raised me, searching for its centre. I hide behind trees and garbage bins, I wrap myself in electric wires as camouflage.

I feel like a stray cat, wandering aimlessly, only following the scent of the kindness others extend towards me. I stick out my tongue to taste the cold air, I rub my body against the honeysuckle bushes.

Along the road, the walls are lined with sun-faded posters, depicting fallen brothers and shackled sons, their eyes still piercing through the bluish fade of the paper. The sky above us remains indifferent to their plight. Rain does not fall, the clouds do not part.

The men in the posters watch my every move.

—

I feel my borders start to close in on me, the madmen of the hills inching closer and closer. The newscasters’ voices harmonise in sync behind the windows of every household.

I attempt to navigate this wound I have been presented with, revisiting memories in an attempt to stay sane. I find long-trodden desire paths, old secret hide-outs, bloodstains I remember leaking out of me.

I shout any name that comes to mind, I learn the language of footsteps. I am dripping with sweat and with fear.

—

I start to make my way back, at dusk. The streetlights stark orange against the darkening of the sky, the sidewalks resting from their daily footfall.

I’ve walked the same streets on loop for 26 years, seen the same flat sunset for as long as I can remember. These distractions can only numb me for so long- the televised death march echoes endlessly behind my eyelids, the only thing that feels real.

I lie in wait for the seemingly inevitable, and a bittersweet companionship seems to find me.

A streetlamp reads me a prayer, a taxi cab sings me a song.

A pack of wild dogs hold my hand, and walk me all the way home.