Bokkie

The music is constantly in the background. Whether it be in my earphones or in my mind, it is always there. It's an unknown band from the north of America, found by my best friend randomly on yesterday's MySpace. It puzzled me why they called themselves Elefant with an 'f'. I never sought an answer though, I just enjoyed it.
As I had borrowed her music, I had also borrowed her book. It had been bought second hand at a small shop in Notting Hill. Once in a walking distance from our flat in Shepard's Bush - now miles along the red line. I didn't like our new abode. But since I had decided to head home to Sweden, I had no say in it. I was a party crasher, someone who wasn't supposed to be there. I slept on the floor, and spent most of my days on the sofa in the living room, reading reading reading. The other foreigners from Brazil tried to talk to me about Bob Dylan and being an alien in a strange land. I had been here for too long, I couldn't engage. I listened to elephants and read about gargoyles.
It was about a manly stripper who drove off a cliff while drinking his beloved Jack Daniels. The fire burned his skin and his manlihood. He spent his days in the hospital ward, talking to the bitch snake in his spine.
I could relate. And it suited my current lifestyle. I was left to a city I hated, and the music and words was the only enjoyable thing I had left.
And I walked. Walked to get cigarettes, to see scabby foxes in the night, walked with my suitcase rolling behind me. I was leaving. Always leaving, fleeing. I was heading home. Finally. And though I enjoyed the moment, and still remember it today - I hated it. London. It didn't hold anything for me besides books, teachers and music made of elephants.