by Arran James
Lately, I don’t read very much. I don’t think very much. I am allowing myself to fall into the voracious mundanity of my age. A post-millennial, post-political, post-modern, poster-boy waiting for some Messianic remix. There is only one conviction that can temper the feeling of shame and the sensation that I am wasting my time, my life: there is, finally, nothing worth doing, nothing worth becoming and the final instance is eternally deferred.
The Unions have returned their verdicts. I will walk out among the strikers in solidarity. Acting at the militant, as always, one last time. A vague wish to be radicalised again sweeps over me. I have lost the faith. I am eating tomatoes.