Can't you see I'm trying?

The wind brings me whispers of revolution. There are rumours of atrocities, outbursts of violence all over the city. Passion burns away the grey. I move out of the centre. Too many people, so many oblivious to the burning words in my mind. I want to shake them, wake them up. Shout and scream and laugh and cry but it's enough just to walk and know that I am right and they are wrong.

Glass crunches underfoot as I step around dirty puddles and trip over stones. Students thrust leaflets in my face or want just a minute of my time, not my money. One of them skips backwards as I stalk past, singing Baby please don't go and I smile despite myself. But I don't have a second to spare.

The road I'm heading for is lined with trees and since it's still the holiday I have the street to myself. I pause for a moment on the bridge, nodding to the skull by the feet of a man I can't identify. I forgot my glasses so I have to strain to see the ducks dive and sway. The stone is crumbling beneath my fingers and I wonder what it would be like to pull my weight onto the curved edge. To swing my legs dangerously above the swirling yellow water. I take a detour behind the museum, closer to the river. The spire peeks out above trees. I perch on the edge of a bench to execute my plan. The bench is dedicated to a woman named Joan. It's my gran's name. My earliest memory is of her. We walked down a path with huge imposing green trees and the whole place smelled of pinecones. There were red squirrels like my favourite toy and I sat on a stone wall with my feet miles away from the ground, eating cherry tomatoes and making up stories.

I fold the paper carefully, hoping I remember how to do this right. I ruin two sheets before I have a satisfactory boat in my hands and I fold it down flat again to paint my dreams on the prow. Pink blossoms fall on my lap and I place them on the deck. Once the coast is clear I lean out and push my craft into the sea. I ask the ducks to make sure it reaches its destination safely and I fancy one of them nods. In my story you'll find it, like you've found all of my messages scrawled on desks and walls and pieces of paper left lying between the pages of books for rent. I want to switch all these squares screaming deals of cheap booze with words that make your heart soar. That encapsulate that perfect moment in a film when everything is quiet and dimly bright and there's a sense of peace and sadness.

And I want you to find me on a wall with my feet not quite reaching the ground, waiting for you and making up stories.