Flashbacks from England; Ascribo's Dissociation

It was a narrow path that runs between the Pitts River Museum and New Marston Neighborhood of Oxford, England. I can still see the blue sign indicating that this is a cyclist/foot path. I observe people smiling back at me as they stroll along the leafy trail. Horses in farms on the right, the gleams of sunset colouring the horizon with golden red, a boy with a fishing rod on the left. Soft breeze is blowing; water-flow under the small bridge is making a soft, pleasant bubbling sound, and creating, with occasional songs of birds, a romantic scene.

Not after a long time, I find myself sitting in a train, staring at a panoramic view of Oxford, and thinking about my past two months, and my next station. Against me a young boy is playing cards with his father, his Mom is reading The Times.

Shortly, the scene changes. I'm staying in a Victorian guesthouse, then I'm standing confused (again!) in a large supermarket. Rain washes it away, to find myself sitting in a garden by the lake. Then the lake becomes a ship canal, and I'm standing at the top of a high tower. It's just like a mixed-up filmstrip...

Finally I’m sitting in a waiting hall at an Airport terminal. A Virgin Atlantic Jumbo is preparing to take off, and I’m solving Sudoku in today's copy of The Independent. After a while, as I'm taking a final glance at the beautiful green piece of land that surrounds Manchester Airport, I think I should have stayed more in this pleasant land. Eventually I fall asleep.

Next morning, I wake up on a different combination of sounds that comprises the most irritating melody I've heard in my life. If a picture equals a hundred words, then a video is worth a thousand pictures. You'd better take a look at what I saw from my room's window:

What a cruel, abrupt transition! In less than 24 hours my deadly calm room that looks upon Lyme valley turns into what you've just watched. From now on, this would be the morning annoying alarm. No more green horizons. I think of that Airlines agent asking: "Are you sure you want to fly on Thursday?” Then I dismiss all those memories to where they belong: the PAST, in an attempt to get back to the awful reality.

But now, after I somehow got over the so-called: reverse cultural shock, I'm starting to have flashbacks of those memories. I never expected that I'll see it all again so vividly, and to the smallest detail. But here it is, I start to feel my personality dissociating.

Finally Ascribo tells me he wants to get back to England. He insists he never wanted to leave it in the first place. Now he wants to stay in that "PAST", writing about what he's seen and learnt. I have no choice, for now, he is the one who thinks and dictates; I only write what he says.
We'll call it: "Lessons from London". I think it's interesting that although he's spent just few days there, but he got most of what he's learnt in England from that old city, the heart of civilized world, More or Less.