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The Old Woman

A Student's Philosophy Sat in a Northern Pub, at the Brink of Becoming Something

By Nessy WriterPublished 5 years ago 3 min read
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The old woman was walking in front of me. Her step has not lost its determination, scarves gracefully wind round a neck shrouded in web-like grey. Life goes on, it begins and it ends. You can only hold on to what you gain while it's going. That determination, one foot in front of the other. It is learnt, it is conditioned and maintained. She marches gracefully on and I try to match her step as I follow behind. All too soon, I see I must be left behind. She walks on and I halt at my stop. At a door with a building sense of dread before I make that final step inside.

There is a painful ache at the base of my heart, not so much to make me stop, to incapacitate me. Just a throbbing that gives me no peace. It doesn't matter. So long as I place one foot before the other I'm still moving forward. It doesn't matter where I'm going as long as it's somewhere, infinitely better than its loser twin nowhere. Still, every somewhere is nowhere for someone else.

The people, so many people, entwined in a net of purpose that is not as differentiated as they think. Faces you might know, possible lovers, friends, enemies, surveying their path and you, a stranger, with cold indifference. Every face that passes by might have a purpose or fade into obscurity. Another being with a story of their own. It's hardly an office I sit in for this grown-up, part-time job. To the point it is a pub. Because the estate agent reckoned students would like to seek advice on where to live from another student in a pub. I drum my fingers on the table and wait, and watch. No one ever comes.

You stare into air for long enough, you can notice things. The decorative plates attempting an asian design of white backdrop and blue line. Attempting the exotic but amalgamating it generically. The pattern for the three plates is the same. The colours are too cold. Everything else in the pub comforts in a muted way that warns you not to hope for too much, insulted by the notion of opulence. I agree with that simple snobbery. Extravagance leaves no room to hope for better things. And it's the hope that drives you. That keeps you going.

The carpet is plaid, bringing to mind formal events with Scottsmen. I notice another plate, depicting Princess Diana and her then love. Next to pillars of brick, grained, wooden chairs. Everything is plain and proper as is expected in a proper, respectable, british pub. White light trickles blandly through the window. The plaid floor is green and blue and coupled with my rolling stomach, I might as well be stranded on a boat in the midst of a drizzled set of chilling waves. Not rolling enough however, not to notice the plaque advertising the "Bombay bad boy curry feast." Oh food. The smell of chips drenched in vinegar and crusted with salt wafts over. My stomach rumbles like far-off thunder. Sounds of soft Northern accents blend with the silence of older couples. I cannot conceive of such a listless existence. Sat in silence, expecting nothing more than the plates before them.

They quietly continue. They are content. Shouldn't I be? I'm being paid to sit, waiting for people who will never come, writing streams of consciousness on a pub table. Looking official and ridiculous. But I'm consumed with longing for something more than all of this. Something beyond this bubble of tradition encased in a veneer of students.

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About the Creator

Nessy Writer

A freelance writer of all sorts sharing it out with the world. Poetry, prose and advice.

If you want to show your support and see more please follow me on Twitter: Nessywriter

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