I considered how to represent something so seemingly trivial as a journey I take almost everyday. My first thought was, of course, photographs, but any I took felt like a detachment from something that I realised was surprisingly intimate. Each time I walk that route something will be different even if every other aspect is identical. My thoughts won’t repeat in the same places every time I travel, but run wild, enflamed by the sights, sounds and smells I encounter on my half an hour adventure.

I start by leaving my house and immediately having to re-enter because I left my keys indoors. Cue phoning my sleepy housemates and incessant apologising.

As I walk down the street I look out for the tabby cat that took a liking to me last year. I haven’t seen her since returning, I hope she’s ok. I walk under the stone bridge that lifts the train-tracks above our heads and marvel at the dappling of light that makes the plethora of graffiti shine. Is graffiti a way to merely gain a response or is it someones real desire to share their artistic musings? It’s difficult to think deeply about graffiti when someone have sprayed a phallic genital over the top of someone else’s phenomenal piece.

The sun shines in my eyes and strobes as I walk next to the metal fence that houses the Rugby Arena. I always worry that I stare to much while walking and that people are going to think there is something wrong with me. I want to not worry what strangers think … I haven’t yet succeeded.

When I knew I was going to writing about my journey, the story formed in my head as I was walking, and became a part of the experience. I noticed things I do every day that otherwise I don’t even realise are things I do. My marvel at the enormous willow tree behind the old abandoned pub, how I feel the desire every day I walk past it to peer over into the river. I think I find water calming.

As I go through the tunnel to a new road, I instantly feel calmer. I am making progress. I enjoy this road because of the buildings, old and beautiful because of it. Buildings with top floors that jut out further than the bottom, and are covered in wood and beams that are silent but I imagine them creaking. The heavy wooden doors look more suited for a Cathedral instead of ‘Bears and Doll Houses’.

The writing gets harder here, because my mind wandered to the point where the journey was insignificant to my thoughts. It became something I was travelling with a purpose but no investment. As long as it got me where I needed to be, my mind was free to wander to things I can’t even remember now. I briefly considered why Teepees had appeared in the centre of town but was then distracted by someone talking quite emphatically and it wasn’t possible to discern whether they had a hands-free head-set, or were conversing with their personal unseen entities.

As I see the Ellen Terry building my mind snaps back to reality and I feel relief for the end. I also consider that my relief is intrinsically linked to the fact I am incredibly lazy.

I don’t dislike the journey, but so often it feels like wasted time. I don’t remember what I am thinking about when my mind wanders from my movements, so I feel lost despite the purpose of the journey being completed and successful.

As I walk into the building, trying to juggle my coffee with my Student Card, I realise I have to try and write this in a way that gives context to something that feels incredibly abstract to me. I want this so desperately to make sense and sound beautiful … but my thoughts are my own and the journey itself is not one of beauty but necessity. I see beauty in my surroundings, not the task of walking.

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