‘Paint it Black’

Three and a half years ago…

‘I see a line of cars and they're all painted black.’ They're shiny and menacing, speeding along the Broadway in a devilish flash of colour. They’re peppered with the occasional white car: my saviours. Good is with me and I slowly exhale; I am a good person so good will obviously follow me and guide me and save me in this existence. Bad will always try to tempt me, to flirt with me, but I am buffered by the formidable army of good angels and we will triumph, we will triumph.  

I reach the station and mindlessly scan my oyster. I’m on the tube in a flurry and close my eyes in concentration. I attempt to make sense of the overwhelming present but simultaneously do not want to try to even think of the beautiful and intangible unknown. Life is a mystery; we’re not meant to know the truth. I can see things that others can’t see so they’re following me to try to stop me discovering the undiscoverable, from comprehending the incomprehensible. I momentarily open my eyes and startle as the elderly lady sitting directly opposite me winks knowingly. This simple but grave action is silent acknowledgment from the devil that he knows that I know his secret. They’re coming to get me tonight. I must not have fear. fear. fear.

The monotonous tube announcement of ‘Camden Town’ brings me back to my senses and I escape the depths of the underground. The polluted yet refreshing air welcomes me and creates a relief from the tide of analysis that is obliterating my mind. I briskly walk down the high street and feel the glare of hollow faces and bottomless black eyes staring, staring. I enter the pub and greet my friends, but almost immediately leave the group for the bar. I have shots with gathering young professionals and tell a worried-looking member of the group that she is a good person and that she should smile more and that she should wear white more often. However, I am unfulfilled and bored in these stifling surroundings; my duties lie elsewhere.

Telling my friends that I’m suddenly tired and want to go home, I walk towards the doors that I had only entered moments before. I ignore their protests that I should stay. I also ignore their worried faces. As I exit, an enticingly mysterious man stops me and asks me where I’m going. He is working for the devil, I’m sure. I need to win him over. I cunningly accept his invitation to go to a club and am once again on the swirling streets of Camden, with a whirl in my stomach that is not entirely comfortable. I grab his arm and eagerly tell him he can change his mind about where his duties lie. He hasn’t been neglected by God. I am here to guide him.

I am in the queue, once again alone. The group in front of me are troubled; I can sense it strongly. One lights up and I grab the cigarette and put it in my mouth. I munch and munch then spit it on the floor by his feet, uttering ‘smoking is bad for the soul’ three times.

Where am I going? I run blindly.

I am alone in the crowds but I am not scared. The feeling in my stomach is like dark waves gathering at a rocky shore. The waves violently wash over me, cleansing my soul. I now feel energised by it all. I am alive. ‘Are you ok?’ someone asks me from the shadows and I nod and grin and laugh and shake their hand. I am impeccable. I have never felt such a momentous surge of self-satisfaction: I am helping the balance of this wickedly wondrous world.