spinning top

I feel tense for no real reason. it's nothing to do with anything that has happened. I think it comes from the anticipation of what might be waiting down the hall. when I think about and feel the dread in my fingers up my arms into my chest as I type I want to laugh into the mirror. to take my fear so gravely is the ego manifest. I'd call myself silly but I do that a lot and you've started to ask me to stop. and I want to do as you say, to keep you around. all I can think about wanting right now comes from you. approval? maybe. you're yet to give me cause enough to warrant all this second guessing. I hug a stuffed toy like I have most nights since I first learnt how to hold onto anything.

what scares me is the futility of joy, though it shouldn't. few of us face the day dismissive of the fact that nothing lasts, that every feeling passes like the clouds and sales and changes into something else. if the sun never left when would we sleep? futility makes something special. flowers matter in their momentary beauty. I guess we are the same. there is just something scary about the lack of knowing when things change and what shapes these changes leave behind. though beating constant our hearts and minds change more like stocks than tides. you matter now and we have for a moment. and you are beautiful forever.

strange how we find new religions. I can't remember searching though I am never left without some kind of altar. where am I to put my love? big words. love is time is thought is dreams and other things I can't explain. love is something different every day. what is constant beyond change? what can anybody trust for longer than a piece of string?

when we are alone together there is no doubt. not, at least, in your arms or the dancing stardust of your laugh. I bury my head in the crook of your neck where I would live forever if I could. when we are alone together we don't need our words, though I love the things you say to me and the sound of my name on your tongue.

to feel things is a privilege and to know you is a gift. I don't know if the fear of your washing away can be helped. there's a bus stop near my house, a little too far to walk. sitting on the nature strip I wait for mum to pick me up. it's a hot December evening and I'm about to lose a friend. there's a song about a nightmare soon I'll wake from, like a phone call with a young psychologist I used to think I loved. he tells me we don't really know each other, he's not what I remember, and it's time for us to grow up. I know how I feel but bite my tongue. there's a scent that pierces like a dagger from a friend I loved before I knew what it was. it passes by as rarely as the 29th of February. we laughed and held each other once for the last time without knowing. I don't know why he left and doubt I ever will.

you don't know these things. you are new and clean like water running through and over me. it's not for you to worry, though I think you do. I feel fragile in anticipation. this is lovely but I know that nothing lasts. I am a spinning top on the table, dread and hope watching over for some date night pre-meal entertainment. you spin me and the world blurs and isn't it wonderful? 

missing census questions

did you have any dreams?

how often do you think about death?

how often do you think about the Bermuda Triangle?

what is your coffee order?

what are your doomsday plans?

who do you trust?

do you have a desert island disk?

do you want more than this?

what makes you laugh?

are you (currently) more afflicted by dread or hope?

what (do you think) needs to change?

what do you wish more people knew?

cowboys or aliens?

how is it going to end?

is there something else you wish we asked/want to say?

                thanks for your time.

angels on my shoulders

when I have finished folding laundry and myself I take the final light before nighttime by the creek. plugging my ears with someone else's voice I try to be alone. though I can't hear the stream I can't escape the shriek of my own thinking. birds invisible in shadow watch from branches hanging over a path I can still believe in without seeing. their laughter pierces through whatever silly score of songs I chose for comfort. I call my parents, terrified by my inability to be alone. they join me on my walk. we ask and answer the same questions we will ask tomorrow. our daily census means so little yet it's all I know for sure.

on the stream I ebb and flow between hope and dread. too much of one is dangerous, too little can be foolish. both have the sway to drown me where I drift. I think about moderation and how much better I should be at sitting still. each cloud is different and not every day warrants monuments. I smile at your name when it lights up my phone. maybe the moment is enough.

hope and dread are angels on my shoulders. both imply each other and seem to want me well. I wish I could know them both a little less.

forgetting my glasses

how happy can I be living in perpetual fear of my own apathy? the people on the news start to scare me less. I scare myself with how much more I seem to think about the end of something that has hardly just begun. clouds run heavy with dread for the inevitable, waiting for the fates to pull the rug and send me falling back to earth into my shell. I remember I forgot my glasses crossing tram tracks in the rain. the whole world looks a little softer in the fog. by the window falling into blue light and white noise. I pour a little too much time in finding you a song. perhaps I should have saved some for the census.

the tram back home is packed with sardines craving space / to be anywhere else. I want to be riding my bicycle. golden hour washes through the glass over statues holding vigil on their phones. one woman stands facing the open window she is locked to with her fingers. we watch the sun descend into the suburbs.

sleep as an escape

so lovely to hear from you.

I'm sorry to hear about the food poisoning. I'd never heard the term octogenarian before (it's great). that's a wonderful revelation about sleep as an escape. on reflection I feel the same. with or without dreaming we breathe brief relief from ourselves (or at least the linear narrative of our piece of string) each night.

nice to read that you've made a decision that you're happy with. I hope that the coming weeks of exploration are helpful and kind to you, with pleasant colours and sensations. 

all flowing fine over here. on the advice of trusted friends I am trying my best to trust my feelings and each day as it comes. Amy visiting for the uni open day next weekend.

thinking of you lots and wishing you everything you need and wish for yourself.

lots of love.

subsisting

in spite of every headline

fate

and feeling words neglect

night and day subsist

you and I

still here for now

earth

home

each other’s arms

whichever space we take

forever

til it ends

with incense and a tombstone

tears

a mushroom cloud

or just a change of heart.

watching theatre in a foreign language

my brother treads the streets of old America. he is breathing air none of us have ever known, writing me from eleven thousand feet above the sea. this is the first time he's been alone in months. he says he's feeling strange. loneliness has been patient and I think they're shy to reunite. it's been a while.

we miss each other more when we're apart. to miss each other is a gift. I ask for his thoughts, receiving love and photos from his window in the clouds. he watches theatre in a foreign language. he had no idea what any of the players said or what the action meant. we both think it's kind of wonderful. anything can be absurd to ears that cannot understand.