I had a dream last night. In full vivid colours.
Groups of hipsters were walking in woods, by rivers.
I wondered where they were, and how they got there, and was shown that this was their Sunday retreat,
a place in the countryside, within reach of London, where there was walking, and birdsong.
I went to London Bridge, held on to the side of a carriage, and flew,
just missing signals and squeezing past bridges,
out over the river and south.
In a peaceful dell under leaf-shadows there was no pretension. People talked.
I woke, and immediately the name of the place escaped me.
In liminal confusion, between dreams and here I wondered
Perhaps it exists, I thought. Perhaps I could go there.
Until I remembered. In real life no hipster would bother:
We’d had to change at East Croydon.
Image © the profoundly disturbing Hipster Hitler.
I’m not quite sure why, but this dream really stuck with me this morning. There are so many wonderful things we could be enjoying, but the small inconvenience of having to change prevents us. Hip lives locked in by narrow ruts cut by fear of doing something different, beyond the districts within we are comfortable. Perhaps.
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