Dizzy

The Spin

In the tilt of a railway platform, the world unfurls like a woolly scarf hanging from the buzzing ceiling. The whistle blows, and a river of traffic lights blinks behind my ears as if the street is a carousel.

I stand there with my umbrella off against the wind’s impatience, and my legs, still clinging to the platform before they know what “stable” means. The thoughts of a weekend break to the coast float out like the scent of rain‑kissed thatch from the corner shop’s window kiosk.

Colours blur in a soft, honeyed saucer – sky’s deep blue pews with a sudden pale white, and the red traffic light pulsates from the outside world like a heart drum holding breath.

The tunnel sighs, “push through,” but the tunnel is a mouth, yawning its black throat in the dim corridor. There’s no safety rail under my palms – just the comforting lukewarm crust of my sandwich, smudging with the quick flicker of the stop‑light.

All I can feel is the spin of the head’s own pendulum: a tea pot being turned by invisible hands, a recipe for dizziness that isn’t quite the echo of the footfall cascading in behind me. The signs of feeling dizzy are the closed‑eye whisper that the air is swelling, filling the parallax between the left and the right.

I let the breath carry me, and in the gentle exhale I try to find the centre of the world again, the angle where the sky meets the street, the line where that dizzy cerebro‑wheel cements itself to a new point of stillness.