same again

waiting forever for nothing to come. a sponge rung dry on the bench. dormant and bitter until further use. affirm for access to wash yourself again. tell me that you miss me when you need your wounds rebound. cry into my pores and let me listen til you’re clean and good to leave. let’s play the way we’ve learnt. please let me hear your fickle words. I’ll try to care the same again.

to the trunk of a tree

disposable and weathered and well aware of the depths of difference between hope and reality. look up from your phone. peer through the clouds for refuge somewhere else. disappointments fill the trolley I push through the underpass lit by billboards of failed franchises and bus windows. healing as a process holds weight, clouding over empty fields and Sunday afternoons. healing as a process wears many faces, none of which appeal at first glance, unfiltered and frightening and ghostly. healing as a process never ends. we wake to breathe and continue and fish out our own answers. I lurk in the shell of a life I can’t love: still attached to the trunk of a tree I’m now not.

scream

I scream for reason from the storm

she says there’s been none all along

and though the tempests never cease

at least in ignorance there’s peace

I scream for reason but she’s gone

don’t cry but keep the camera on

theres so much content to be made

you’re looking too good for the grave

perhaps my sense of self is lost

just how much might another cost?

what can I do for anyone

if I despise what I’ve become?

invoice

the therapist asks questions only she can get away with. I surprise myself with answers I've never shared. her probing conjures shameful revelations out of words I fill with feeling. she nods into her notes. I cry at unexpected tears. we talk about the monuments we build for days we hate. there is a cause for every hurt and a brain that deals with both. she says the way I care about the world is lovely but I need to take a break. 'it will all be as it was when you return'. I laugh at the idea. turn your back from what you know to sleep a little longer. just forget about the massacres you're funding for a week or two. 'you'll have more energy that way'. we rest to keep going and nothing changes. she tells me to go gently. I pay the invoice in my inbox with the money on my phone.

into birds

9 years disappear over night. for a glimpse of today I remember how it felt to find out and not know better than to hope it wasn’t true. I think about what happened and wonder if we’d still matter to each other had you made it to the picnic. is there a world in which we find our feet and live the dreams we wanted? if you could meet him would you want to know the person I’ve become?

my missing comes in tears and thoughts that cannot find their words. I hold onto your memory and fold it into birds.

the rocks at the beach

I bus to the beach to watch my friends swim from the rocks. the day is too hot under overcast skies. I sit in the shade of the ledge above and think about dipping my toes in. they’re splashing and laughing and I have done the same before. their joy is effortless and unremarkable and I know only I stand between that feeling and the escape from the well I’ve poured into. they clamber up to join me, smoking and stretching their bodies to dry over towels. my body is tired and fragile in the presence of others better at knowing who they are and finding comfort in their skin. I count the ways I need to change and wish I could transcend myself to live for something else. I curse the walls I can’t hold back from building. why can I never stop the thought from coming back to what the moment means for me? the cities fall to flames and my sadness triumphs all. no loathing is enough to move beyond the mirror. vanity forever from the rocks at the beach.

built to crumble

we packed our bags and left what we had built to crumble into nothing. do I dream of our ghosts and that shell of a hotel for five years more? is there any meaning left in memory when I know we never mattered? if I choose to find my feet can I wake and still remember how it felt?

choosing baubles

I talk to my parents on the phone. they're excited for me to come home for the summer. on Thursday we will find a tree and hang the lights in the lounge room. every year we sweep the ash from the fireplace to make space for the nativity. I remember helping build the stable out of bark and choosing baubles for the branches as a child, when time was too slow and tomorrow was a treat I couldn't wait for. though the feelings have changed - and that line of thinking is foreign to me now - the charade remains the same. we sing the songs that once stoked the excitement with petrol. I lay the baby Jesus in the hay under an angel. the glow of the lights on the tree washes softly through the hallway til the morning.

I come home with baggage. the weight of knowing how things are closes my heart away from the child that prayed for gifts he never needed. the smile in dusty photos on the mantel is no longer mine. the hope in his eyes makes me laugh. he knows nothing of the bombs or how he'll learn to hate the mirror and the world he cannot change. to see me in his future would be enough to wake him up and yet we share a name and vital organs. like him I will hang the decorations and hold my mother's hand in church. we watch cartoons and look for chocolate in the fridge. the people seek relief and we are just the same: there is comfort in the trivial until tomorrow comes.

drink enough water

wake and work and wait for bed. drink enough water. walk to the store by the station. fill the basket and the pantry. wash your dishes. spend time in the sun. pick up the phone when it rings. think about tomorrow. remember only what will help you find your way. say thank you. water the plant by the window. share photos with friends. tell them to visit. eat. look in the mirror and floss your teeth. read the news. be mature. cry only if you mean it. thank God for your bed and a house with a ceiling. moisturise your face. think about anyone other than you. think before writing. make something of the day that should have been. listen to the fridge. hope for a dream.

I’m sorry I still hate my birthday.

behind the yellow line

I stand behind the yellow line and write shopping lists for other people. thoughts I shouldn’t harbour catch like plastic bottles in the stones that make the tracks. trains and seasons pass and still they linger: discarded and unmoving. attempts to disregard do little. I work and sleep and they remain. we throw our plastic into bags for trucks to take away and forget. what are we to do with all the rubbish we can’t reach? every track is tainted. does anybody care?

I hug your ghost to sleep

there is nothing romantic in my missing. I walked you to a train before I knew what goodbye meant. it was different then: we were both people in the present tense, saying words we’d heard but not yet learnt or tried to understand. maybe we should have known better. maybe we shouldn’t have met. I recount what I remember into parables and psalms. the scriptures sell a canon that means nothing to the faithful beyond memory and dream. nobody knows what they’re trying to say.

the story ends. I hug your ghost to sleep knowing you won’t mind. we can laugh at what I know I should leave be. you are an idea I water with tears that should be saved for something else, any cause more worthy than the absence of someone for whom I no longer exist. still I wonder how much you remember. am I anything more than a name? do you see me in the cracks of the walls? you are nowhere I have been and yet I cannot be removed with silence. we use the words we want to tell our story though what was cannot be changed. we were here forever for a while. another world was real beyond the dreams and time that come between us since. 

space does little to dilute the curse. I love an idea that ties me helpless to the stake from where I watch the forest burn. on the pyre my view is clear above the smoke at my feet. the sky is pink with flames of fires that matter more than mine. I hear the masses cry for help beyond the hill. with a pulse I do nothing for the screams: the knots I’ve tied are in your name and keep me where I am. the sky is pink until the flames make way for night. with the ashes I ascend over a world diseased, ignored by those ignored by those for whom they shouldn’t long. I miss you in the sky that covers over everything.

like dolls

in the foyer children play and fight over who is older. they dress like dolls and tease the baby learning how to talk. she stumbles round the couches in socks as the princesses parade behind with taunts: ‘hello baby’, ‘little baby’, ‘what a clever baby!’ she smiles and they laugh but the mockery is wasted here. the baby loves her new friends and leads them round the tables to a couch. I sit and read a play about big questions. my brother said I’d like it and though I do I’m far from focus or knowing what the story wants to tell me. the baby asks about the bottle at my feet. I smile and say hello before the father saves her from the stranger and his book. ‘the man is busy; don’t interrupt his reading’. she protests over his shoulder. I close the book to wave goodbye.

air disaster memorial

we drive into the hills

beyond a city stagnant in the sun

running late for a show the rain will almost always spoil

to wind the windows down

and scream into the wind

over the engine and the asphalt

made for people to keep moving

by those who once knew how

we think too much

and need to change

the news is a tombstone we read into tears

and do nothing about

as the moss grows on the mirror

where the ego comes to die

once the tank is empty

and we give up on the highway

no more waiting for an exit

to another outlet mall

full of too much I don’t need

like the roar of the disaster at the door

peeking through the lock

I see the claws 

and sit alone

hiding from the steps ahead

doing everything I shouldn’t

light like nobody I’ve been

full of answers without questions

without water

without change

counting satellites and seconds

til we’re waking up again.

tired for today

the banner on the screen cannot complete my request. in the middle of an email I no longer have a network connection to the server. they ask me to check my connection and try again later and I do as I am told. frustration begs to break but I am tired. the drafts are lost like school friends or hope. what a shame. should I care and scrape for meaning to disappoint a little more? the energy that was has been wrung into the sink. I watched it empty through the drain without a sound: the last sip of a drink I thought I wanted. not enough for a splash, but a few unsteady drops I might’ve used to wash my hands for someone else. 

the bus keeps moving and the clouds roll in to sleep. maybe I should do the same. there is rain on the window for a bit. we pull the plug on thinking to watch wartime on the phone. I am smaller than tomorrow and too tired for today.

motion picture soundtrack

I fall through the thought

til it’s gone and I’m not

and it flies through the clouds

that I’d keep if I could

but I can’t so I won’t

and they pass over seas

from one day to the next

and I’m still on the bench

falling inside myself

as I watch what I see

a movie I hate

I’m screaming and crying and ready to leave

but the exit is blocked

a barricade of what I’ve lost

toys and games I used to know

lonely names we used to use

the place we left our flowers

bouquets of hopes and dreams and clouds

you in my stars

and the lies I told myself

the nightmare is just a nightmare

a dream is a dream

I can’t wake up

and so I sleep

and so I sleep

and dream of meaning in drought

with pulse and time and all the air

I’d ever need and never want

I’ll feed it to the void

they’ll sell it at the shops

or hang it on the trees for any bird to take

hear every sigh

spend my every day

take all I’d have

what good is breath

when you’re not here

and I was wrong

and all we were has come and gone?

until Christmas

every breath feigns control of the beast. the addictions stunt his body and the mind I wish I knew a little less. no pill or thought bares poison enough to forget who or how I am. the self transcends will beyond mirrors. we should know better than to hope for growth behind the curtain.

my inbox is a graveyard: I live and let down with storms as they come. change is a ghost I have known and want to believe in again. water runs through drains to clouds that drift for stars. this body belonged to a child who couldn’t sleep or wait to grow up. when did he stop counting how many sleeps until Christmas? 

while I sleep

we swim after school

and dry in the car til the annexe floods

from the palace to the green

there are toys from my shelf on pillars in the park

I see their faces cast in bronze

and Basquiat on the back wall of the lecture hall

though no one knows his name

running barefoot through the inner west rain

missing the bus and the train again

to crawl through holes to nowhere

lost in heavy smoke and dancers I can’t see

finding myself in a home I don’t know

fanfare in the kitchen for the birthday boy

he has so many friends

I miss out on a part in the play

the queen is dead

and you don’t want another drink

a few too many questions

or the wrong face

maybe you’ll see me soon

disappearing through the cornfields in the dark

I walk through mud and strangers

window shopping for tomorrow or a sign

waking up again

to dream of moving to the moon.

splintered

I wake with less to say each morning. my ears are still open, though I start to feel my patience wain as the days get warmer and the heat of the sun bleeds on into the night. compromise takes more than before and I find myself less willing to sit and wait in the dark behind a smile. rejecting the illusion, the puppet crumples in a heap: splintered and exhausted by the show. they throw him on the pyre to laugh at the thought of being something more than firewood or a means of keeping others warm.

I have thoughts that shouldn’t surface into feelings. friends notice a difference and tell me. some ask what’s wrong or why I can’t be how and who they’ve come to expect. I don’t know the answers and have to look deeper. when I listen to myself I chase thoughts into a cell. we light a torch to find my heart locked behind new bars I’ve seen before: bones scavenged from the debris of unmet expectations and the depths of past mistakes and disappointments. the cage is small and leaves less room for what I shouldn’t carry. I don’t know why or when it came or where I left the key, though I know it’s for the best if I’m to try to keep afloat. the questions wait for answers I don’t have. I cradle myself at the foot of the cage I cannot open. why have I learnt to love less when all I ever do is want more?

the dust on the shelf

the sky weeps over the masses and their banners in the streets. a storm only serves to swell their shouting louder. they cry for justice in a world they once believed in. the man on the speaker tears a knife through the facade: ‘there is no law and order’. we shake our heads and mourn the hope we held for what we thought we knew. heavy rain makes rivers of the sidewalk and buckets of my shoes. I shout along and love the storm more than I could ever love the sun.

when the words stop working there is very little left. the lack of sense persists without a language. I face the abyss in the absence of reason harboured in the mirror’s eyes. I smile and hate my crooked teeth as though they matter. my hair is a nest of straw I fight the urge to tear out. the fixation alone is cause to smash the mirror with my fist. there are children dying on my phone and I can’t get over myself. I bottle loathing from the fountain of my daily disappointments: stored for myself and no one else in cellars only I can find.

sleep waits on the pillow I dread leaving. tomorrow is another stone I’d rather leave alone. I am the dust on the shelf I can’t reach.

I walk through the rain for something to do

I am bound to the bed

I have made in my head

it’s too warm and too small

not much comfort at all

but it’s here that I lie

as the day passes by

I’ve tried to get up

but I’ve tried’s not enough

so I watch the sun pass

through the curtains and glass

think of what makes a day

when I last felt okay

wonder why I’m still here

having nothing to say

the world is on fire

I’m a funeral pyre

looking out at the mess

from the edge of my nest

knowing I am not cursed

and it could be much worse

but I still want a match

and I still pray for rain

and when I fall asleep

I’ll still wake up again

a plastic bag of clothes

the morning comes. I don’t want to pull myself into another day of the charade. come tomorrow I will feel the same and still decide to play again. still looking for sense. I am the punchline they forgot to tell. 

the bed weighs heavy with a dream of being held: I fell in love asleep with someone stuck in my subconscious. they don’t exist now I’m awake and I have no one else to blame. more comfort is found in the lovers I dream than the worlf that I wake to each day. sleep is not enough to fuel the drive to look for more. I say things need to change. my bones are weak and worn. the body is a plastic bag of clothes I want to give away. 

on what you wrote about our will

and so I surrender

what I recall and all I am; 

(assortment of dreams and vital organs

screen time and shopping lists

and feelings I’ve forgotten

in a body I could live without)

waiting in the rain

for the doctor to call

on my knees by the lights like a dog

begging for a bone

or a spell to take my will

and wash away my name

tell me what it takes

and give me anything

I’ll swallow any anticurse

if you can’t fix me

with a blessing.

today can be a friend

the day can never disappoint without the aid of hope. if I can breathe and want no more, today can be a friend. there is a choice to greet tomorrow with nothing but a smile: with no agenda there is freedom from believing in the clock. to surrender faith in meaning is to transcend disappointment. what can hurt me if I choose to hope for nothing?

the thought is a print of a painting I love. I’ll hang it on my bedroom wall to push me closer to the world I want to live in. it watches me work to sleep to work again. there is irony in dreaming of the choice to never dream again. through the eyes of the mirror I claw at the privilege to play with this thought of never wanting. I can watch the world and children burn and still lose more sleep for myself and my thoughts of the doors I can’t reach. the reflection is repulsive and I moisturise his face.

numbers in the calendar weigh days as though they matter. there are photos of a face I miss and dreams I should abandon. I hope to never hope again and still I wonder where you are. we walked through the city in the rain one night. I don’t know how much you remember. letting go makes sense in a world that moves on. it is easy to miss. it is safer to forget. I have loved an idea for too long. a memory is a memory is a memory. 

strangers I’ll remember

there is life in the shell where I dream. every night spawns a new path forged for freedom from the blind climb by the stream of sardines through the subway to their desks. escape for a moment enough to forget. colour bleeds through sleep into stories I write for myself with words I can’t find. glimpses of people and places I’ve known give way to new worlds and foreign feelings. I crawl in unfamiliar skin. thinking costs less and I can move through space and moments unfatigued by hate or hurt. every night is something different and the tune can always change: I greet joy and fear as strangers I’ll remember when I wake. now is forever and suns never rise. there is life when I dream to forget where I’ve been and the mess of a self that I’ve left on my bed.

from the sidewalk

at the rally they talk about consequence and there is still faith in the belief that truth will triumph. the people fill the streets and shout in anger for the children we are killing with our taxes while we sleep. onlookers stare confused from the sidewalk. a child blocks her ears in the footsteps of her parents to the shops. we chant our way back to where we started and disperse until next time. tomorrow we will wake to more of the same: what was once outrageous is expected, and we carry on to work and sleep between the strikes and screams we have the choice to hear. I tune in when I can muster space and time for more than diseased thinking and myself. the bombs will rain regardless.

the train runs late. I stand with strangers on the platform under the city we share in common. we look at our phones and the billboards across the tracks. they’re selling holidays and smiles and ways to pay for them later. I scan the wall for answers and there is nothing I can buy to fuel the change I need. the tools are hiding somewhere but I am tired. every day weighs heavy with excuses and a weary helplessness within the world and my own skin. we make sense when we can between the dreams and how things are. I work to wake in the same bed and do it all again.

out of reach

the day starts late. I choose to sleep with no alarm and dream. when I rise and shower the house is too warm and I am alone with nowhere to be. I take out the bins and boil the kettle and look for any chance to fill the storm of empty moments to protect them from my thinking. there is time spent in the store and the cafe for coffee to bring to a friend selling clothes across the road. we talk about missing and misunderstanding people out of reach. she asks if I’ve been writing. I tell her I still try. back in my room I draw my brother sleeping on the couch. the afternoon lingers with the heat on the light through the curtain. an hour reading on my bed about the death of self and ego: I see myself and hear my voice and want to crawl into the pages.

when the sun descends I leave the house again to fill the pause and feel the breeze. on my run I pass the foyer of a play that didn’t want me and a party on a hill a friend had said I should attend. I feel inadequate in every sense and way I am despite the space I try to make for what should matter more. on the edge of potential I can’t reach any further. knowing all I’ve learnt and hate about the world and how I am I still wind up tangled in myself and what I lack. the camera rolls and pans although the script is out of reach. control is an illusion: I surrender and wait for the rain in the dark.

 

the pause

the pause is charged and heavy

I can hear it in the dark

when airplanes stop and sirens die

and all we have is silence

no more static on the screen

or programs we don’t want

to keep us changing channels

to find something to watch

the pause is loud and heavy

too much at once to face alone

I hear my breaths and nothing else

ignore the thoughts left on the shelf

with spiders and their webs

and piles of books I haven’t read

I play with pixels on the phone

and beg my thoughts leave me alone

the colours flash and do their best

to keep me from the sleep before

I live and die through dreams until

another day of more

the pause is there in every room

hanging by the window

like a painting or mosquito

or the mirror in the hall

the pause is always waiting

and I’m never hard to find

lying on the floors of rooms potential left behind

and there is always something more

and I will never run away

the pause is waiting at the door

that I will open anyway.

control

my parents ask me what I need to fix. I don’t know where to start but their thinking is clearer and helpful than any of my own. my fixation with the worst weighs heavy on their hearts though they do what they can to prove nothing is too much for them to hear. we reduce every problem to a shopping list and the words do well to make them look so small. when we say goodnight I have to scan and take my items and I want to leave the trolley at the check-out.

I wake to singing birds and another hundred martyrs on my phone. there is nowhere to scream and nothing to do with the guilt and resentment I harbour for all I have and take for granted. the therapist tells me not to blame myself for choices I could change. I jump on the excuse. the last thing I thought I could control is now controlling me. we give the problem a name and invite him to the table. he looks and sounds too much like me and I want him to leave. I laugh and see myself in everything that needs to change.

different flavours

a stranger emails me about my grandmother’s estate. I read her last will and testament in her second language. there is a clean allocation for every asset that survives her and it all fits easy on one page: whatever was her own is left to those she left behind. it’s strange to read a life reduced to a delegation of material possessions. the language is sterile and complex and I can’t move past the point of wondering how much of it she would have understood. the last time I saw her she couldn’t remember my name, though she knew how to laugh and dance and that she loved me more than I could understand. she leaves her grandchildren a gift and I feel helpless with no choice but to accept the ending of her chapter rolling on into my own. guilt comes in different flavours. I wish I called her more.

someone I love holds me close on the phone. we listen to each other and do our best to close the distance with concern and words we mean. we talk about where we’re going and why we want to change. she cries and I wish my words could be more than a bandaid. off the phone I try to focus on tomorrow. my eyes are always heavy but I need to work and learn to think again. the thoughts are knots I never learnt in school that might have kept the boat from sinking. I tell myself to get more sleep and drink less tea tonight.

in the mountains

they ask me to fill a gap in the team of a project no one seems to want. I smile and say I’m happy to help where they need. the rain clears between meetings and soon the glare is too much even through the curtain. the lens is worn and no distraction is enough. I stop reading the news and take my guilt out for a run.

after dinner we watch a film about a troupe of actors hired to fill the gaps left by loved ones no longer around. they ask questions of their contractors about those they mourn to prepare for performance. did they have a favourite sport or actor? how would they start conversation? the actors assume the role of ghosts and do their best to entertain the illusions of those they’re paid to haunt. sometimes they’re fed lines or told to drink more water. sometimes they forget it’s all performance. I think about the job and what I’d make of it. already every day is danced to someone else’s choice of song. I am running out of steam but I know what people want to see and how much we wish for what we can never have again. would wearing someone else’s grief protect me from my own? I think of being more than who I am and freedom from myself as a canvas for anyone with pain and time to hide from. how long could I make it last? the thought is poison and a dream on a shelf I can’t reach. I would love to act again.

do you watch many movies?

every early night is a lie. the morning is a call I want to ignore no matter how well I sleep or dream. I remember being carried on a couch through the woods in a parade of torches at dusk. we were heading somewhere but there’s no knowing where or why when the bell rings through the trees to pull me out of bed. the mirror is a joke I can’t help but keep telling. I tie my hair back to see better and look worse.

the work is where I left it. I press some keys and then some more and answer questions with notes I made and can’t remember without reference. it’s enough to keep them happy and I smile and say thank you.

the man with the beard guards the chemist on his mattress with his dog. he doesn’t have shoes and seems to have lost the will to ask for change tonight. I make him a ghost and hide from his smile. his presence is a needle of guilt I’ll feel heavy in my veins until I check my phone. a woman asks a man if he watches many movies as they leave the cinema. his eyes are on the road and their unsaid agreement to never meet again.

smarties

in an unfamiliar room I spill my medication on the floor. I hear the pills bounce across the tiles and roll under foreign furniture. my movements have fallen out of rhythm with the thoughts that charge them and the body is slow to respond. when I reach for the tablets under the table and chairs I can only find smarties. I shake my head and wonder where I am. my friend on the couch asks if I need a hand. within seconds he offers up the chocolates from the floor. I rub my eyes and nothing changes: the tablets are coloured chocolates and he’s telling me to take them. he asks if I need water to help swallow and I know he isn’t joking: he sees pills where I see sweets and the difference makes no difference.

when I wake I fight the empty hours with more sleep than I had planned. I run later in the morning and resent the choice and heat that weighs me hopeless for the months to come. in the shower I wash my hair and feel the familiar sting of shampoo in my eyes. I remember the feeling from baths as a child when there was nothing worse to cry about.

I make time to write and wring myself hopeless and dry to nothing I would want to read. disappointment harbours over every choice and I can only ever pray for a break from myself. at the rally I curse every second wasted on myself and the life I spoil with hate and fear of my reflection. the hate only grows in the face of my freedom to dance between guilt and distraction. we shout through the streets of the city and the people have nothing to say.

the couple on the bus dissects the crossword on the phone. I miss wanting to do things and being more than how I am.

never dead forever

the day starts later than it should with the privilege of not being needed. I open the door to an empty house and tend to chores to compensate for daytime lost to sleep. after the shower I shrug through the backlog of conversations I let down with inconsistency each week. in the midst of the mess on my shoulders I protect myself with disconnect I cloak as preservation. so many ways to fall short. I laugh in the face of another excuse made for my unwillingness to claim responsibility for who and how I am: absent and inconsistent til there’s a chance to cry and play my violin.

I take an old friend to a cafe near the station. we order coffee and sit by the window. I ask her how she is. life hasn’t been gentle, though she looks and laughs just the same as I remember. since I last saw her she’s written and read the eulogies at funerals for four of her close friends. her brother has lost the strength to walk, though he’s certain he’s still here for something. she talks about realising how old she is when she sees the toll of time in the death and decay of those she’s known and love. the nuns meet to plan for the future with the order dying out, some less at peace with this than her. turning eighty this week, she tells me she is happy doing nothing. I try to imagine pulling on the breaks after a life of spending every breath on others. she’s started listening to herself and admits that she is tired. she asks if I’ve been acting and the answer disappoints us both. she’s been writing and learning more about who and where she’s been. I tell her she inspires me and I mean it.

the songs in my ears ward off thoughts on the periphery. from the station I keep walking to escape today's potential. on the street a man by the lights wears a shirt that reads ‘never dead forever’. I make dinner plans to hide from empty time and where it leads.

eight minutes

when I wake the mind won’t let my body move. I listen to the keys and tell my phone to let me sleep some more. eight minutes is never enough and I keep asking for quiet though the longer it wards off the day the worse I wind up feeling about myself and where I should be by now. the kettle boils and I wash and dry and tell myself to get more done today. the tasks are as I left them: unfinished and devoid of any shred of something that could mean that they could matter. every day passes knowing things will never be more than how they are. I write plans for meetings to make sense of tasks that wind up more confusing after every conversation. in another tab I watch them blow up buildings by the airport of another city under siege. the spreadsheet expands and feels a lot less important with every cell I fill.

I run from myself through the rain to the shops. the basket is light but I still need a bag to bring my winnings home.

less of the mirror

I listen to jazz in the basement of the church in the city where a friend used to sing as a cantor for the choir. sometimes he sang in latin. sometimes a group of us would fill a pew to cheer him on. I remember the excitement in the pastor’s voice when he’d see us from the lectern: young open minds searching for salvation he can serve up with a sermon. the more of us that came along, the harder he’d play to us in his preaching. one Sunday he even swore, dividing the congregation with gasps and stifled laughter. at the end of the service he would guard the exit and we could never dodge the handshake or the ‘will we see you next week?’ at the door. between jazz sets in the basement, he stumbles through jokes onstage and I see myself in the clown trying too hard to entertain and make a case for coming back.

the lights shine on someone I love on the stage. she makes the trumpet sing and leaves the crowd cheering for more. between songs she makes them laugh without trying and no one wants the set to end. they say she’s the real deal and ask me her name and I am lucky to have people to feel proud of. I sneak out the door when I see the pastor caught in talks with someone else.

in the morning my eye is delicate and heavy. a bump emerges on the lid to block out fractions of the day. I feel it grow through the tabs of tasks and cups of tea that make my day. online they tell me not to touch and wash my hands with soap. I tell myself it’s nice to see less of the mirror and think of something else.

moving soon

the man in the vest mops the steps from the platform to the street. for a moment they are clean and he continues his climb to the top. but the people need to work and take the train to somewhere else and I am no exception. I spoil his work and dirty the steps on my way down. he carries on despite the steady ebb of boots and heels in both directions, mopping over every footprint as he climbs. the current continues and his job will never end. I wonder when he’ll let the boulder roll and what he had for breakfast.

in the office I am asked for my opinion on things I know nothing about. I waste the day in emails and live updates on the news, slipping in and out of each to hide from the other. the richest man in the world secures a seat at the table with the buttons for the big boy bombs. my colleague says we’re doomed and we laugh in the face of the fact that there is nothing we can do to slow the carriage on the tracks.

I run late for plans I promised to a friend I should see more of. on the platform I listen to songs I used to love to forget where I am. the breeze through the tunnel says we’ll be moving soon. the billboards tell me to mind my step and buy a new phone.

another cup of tea

I feel time pass through the cracks in my cup into the moulds of the demands of every day and contract with my name. there are tools I can use to stop the flow though they are little more than bandaids and in no time the pools form at the base of the china on the bench. sometimes I slip on what I’ve spilt and lose my balance. I do my best to find my feet for those the fall has caused more pain than me.

my brother breaks the rhythm for a page or two. we eat somewhere new and take the bus to see someone we miss at the theatre. I scare a ghost in the foyer: in their domain they shrink into themselves when they see me, stepping back into a conversation they’d been hoping to abort. we walk past and they are smaller than they’ve ever looked. on the stage our friend shines like the strobe she had been when we knew her back home. the play doesn’t catch us and maybe we’re too lost in ourselves and patterns we should fix but it’s nice to watch and listen. after the show we say well done and she takes us through the school that’s been her home for a chapter we’ve not yet read. I hear my brother laugh and I wish he could more often. at the house we fall asleep on the couch to the sounds of a film we chose to watch for fun.

in the morning I take too long to wash and ruin someone else’s day. I bend for them and feel the weight of each apology I pen for harm I never thought to cause. the thoughts are bitter and I resent the gratitude I lack for what I have. the soldiers shout and open fire in a cafe. I leave my room and pour another cup of tea.

somewhere safe and far

patience is lost. I blame the sleep that should be longer, knowing it is up to me to change and claim the days I spend however I am told. the spiral is a snake that squirms and chokes reason breathless and the wires need rerouting but the space is never big enough to cradle more than how I am. on the phone I stalk the aisles and fall apart in the supermarket. outside the sun is swallowed by the skyline of a city I give up on every day. at the machine I scan my winnings and watch the numbers crunch to losses as the basket empties. life costs more every week but they thank me for shopping in the same voice.  always leave with something I don’t need.

when I wake I haven’t dreamt and want to sleep again. one eye is heavier and less prepared for another day of being open. the other does the work to get us out of bed. I find my armour in the shower and fall into another week of circles. I find new reasons to apologise between dread and dreaming on the train.

through the office window all I see is sky. the day is a cloud I waste in ghostwritten emails somewhere safe and far from the dystopic nightmare I fuel with my taxes and watch on my phone when I want to wake up. I spill coffee on my desk but not enough for anyone to notice. the screen is a welcome escape and I lose enough of myself in the pixels to tick boxes and prove I deserve a seat at the table. tasks spawn like dead fish and I am an open net.

another cost

I scream for reason from the storm

she says there’s been none all along

and though the headlines never cease

at least in ignorance there’s peace

I scream for reason but she’s gone

don’t cry but keep the cameras on

theres so much content to be made

you’re looking too good for the grave

perhaps my sense of self is lost; just how much might another cost?

what can I do for anyone if I despise what I’ve become?

take the reins

the train is delayed and I sit dormant on the tracks. on the speaker they blame the complication on another train and assure us we’ll be moving soon. I hear the frustrated shouting and the thuds of kicking from a child too old to be causing such a scene in public. the carriage is deaf to the tantrum. we scroll on our phones and look empty out the windows in clothes we chose for others to admire. I watch a video of a child explaining why he sleeps on the grave of his mother in a land stolen by those who killed her in an air strike. on a city of tents they dropped bombs made just a few stations down the line. the boy says he visits the grave every day because he misses her so much and to be near her is to feel safe. 

at the store I listen to a lady talk about cocktails and how much she misses the emerald dress she wore through summer when she was young. on the street someone asks for change and I have no coins to give. guilt is a weight I can’t shrug off. I walk unchanged into tomorrow: breathing and unwilling to take the reins. at night I pray for change and maybe something else to say.

a painting from a sad day

my brother paints a picture of a photo of a painting from a sad day between routines among an assortment of future relics from his current life. in just a few months he’s learnt to paint with oils and once more I’m amazed at the different ways he finds to grow even in the dark. I congratulate him on his work. he wishes it looked better.

I leave the curtain closed to keep the room cool. the fabric is light and thin and does little to stop the heat from weighing down the day. I find new words to say the same things in emails and documents I wouldn’t want to read. sometimes there are replies with questions I can’t answer. I explain a spreadsheet in a meeting and they make sense of what I have to say. on my phone I scroll through days on the beach and lifeless frames of children pulled from the remains of flattened cities as I wait for the kettle to boil. the headlines promise darker days for those already living nightmares. my fridge is full and I feel the grip of guilt tighten til the tea gets cold. I find new ways to pull apart my privilege into problems I don’t want.

there is time spent wishing I knew how to move myself. I try and can’t remember how it feels to believe in the potential of another day. I wonder if I really want to. there are songs I want to live in: words and sounds and souls that make me want to scream. I jump and reach for the reminder that I can still be moved by something.

bringing back the bone

in my dream I’m sitting in the second row of the only theatre I know how to play in. the stage is lit like the lounge of an old manor in a movie on a stormy night. unfamiliar actors emerge from different doors in period costume. their diction is sharp as the dialogue and the tension between the characters is tangible. I think I’m watching a murder mystery or thriller until one of them descends into the audience, none of whom seem to notice or care. she approaches me as the rest of the cast play on and I realise I’ve seen her before in a play that had her possessed by a ghost and dancing on the dining table. she takes my hand and I follow her through a door. once we’re offstage she asks for my clothes. taking them for herself, she dons me in her costume before leaving to sit in the second row.

not knowing what to do, I creep slowly through the door onto the stage, hoping I might go unnoticed. I am called on by the actors I’ve never met, and play along as best I can. they have me dusting the set and clearing tables. I dash round the stage and feel exposed in the unfamiliar dress despite the stockings. the lights are warm and I’m treading water but I catch the current quick. they throw me offers and I jump for laughs and I’m a dog bringing back the bone for more. I hear the gasps and laughter from the dark and we play the rhythm well. it works until the point I reach too far. the corpse is revealed and I can’t contain my shock, throwing up into a cup that overflows a toxic green. my costars turn my way in shock and the strangers in the dark go silent. all eyes are fixed on me and my mistake. I shirk into myself and shed the dress I’ve dirtied but they’re all still looking. the stage is mine and I have nothing to say.

when I wake I relish the thought of a story to tell and a part to play. the air is heavy with the hangover of another disappointment. I rush my shower to clock in on time.

feeding pigeons and a seagull

in a town I used to live the streets swarm: a procession of masks and torches singing and shouting at the looming winter. I catch the train to work as they gather round towers of timber. an arrow lights the flame that rolls into a scream that washes out the stars. the fires reach higher than any assemblage brick and love I’ve called home. the people stand speechless at the death of darkness and I was one of them once.

outside the station a man sits on the bench feeding pigeons and a seagull. they don’t know where he came from and it couldn’t matter less. at my desk I track the destruction of one country and the election of another with more care than I can muster for my frustration. as the figures roll in I think of what I’ve learnt to remember they’ll keep dropping bombs no matter who holds the cards. emails carry thinly veiled frustration between parties unwilling to acknowledge the work means nothing beyond business hours. the team receives good news about more money for more projects. we congratulate each other and I do my best to mask my fatigue with the expectation to always want to jump for more. 

on the way home I lean on the window with the weight of where I’ve been. I listen to strangers talk about the weather and what they’ll do tomorrow. they can’t wait to wake up and do it all again.

lilac blossoms

the bags are heavy and the screen is too busy. I work longer than I should and it’s as though the time between was nothing more than an answer to questions exchanged while we wait for the meeting to start. the deadline waits at the end of the day and I pool what energy I can scrape from the wax already spilt to fuel the engine. by time I shut the lid and leave the house the air is cool.

I run to the park and along the path I’ve mapped through another year of holding space without reason. there is a woman on the slope by the second oval posing for her closeup before the lilac blossoms raining from the trees by the path. the colour makes me think of a friend I’ll never see again and a long sleeve I never wear anymore.

once I’ve brought in the washing I bring my list to the shops. by closing time I haven’t found what I want or need and decide to make a salad. my missed calls return when I can’t take them. I try to remember the last time I felt capable of doing something well, and conjure the familiar spell of self pity and rage at my lost potential. I didn’t read the news today and I loath myself and the privilege that cushions me safe enough to sulk and hide while my taxes burn cities to hell. when I wash my face I wonder why without stopping to follow the thought.

a gift

everything can be okay when there’s enough sound and moving parts between where I am and the constant hum of the knowledge that none of it lasts or matters. in the company of strangers or others I love the claws lose their grip on the thinking that leaves me helpless on the bench. we laugh and often it’s enough to drown out the prayers of the parasite in my skull. I can forget who and how I am for a while and this is a gift.

I dread boarding the plane to retreat into the shell of myself waiting in a house that isn’t home. a hollow routine of tasks and grocery lists hanging from plastic coat hangers ready to snap. tomorrow when I wake I will sober to the space and time I occupy and tend to the screen on my desk. I am faithful to the contract that keeps me fed and safe at night. when I count the days til something else it is behind closed doors and never loud enough to wake the neighbours.

there will always be time on the horizon for hiding or running away from myself. there will always be facts and figures about people and places I am not to make me wish I wasn’t here. even good days are spoiled by diseased thinking about the shape and space I take in a frame that shouldn’t mean anything to anyone. beyond my mind and the poison it harbours there is always the news and the knowledge I cannot change anything. they make bombs near my house and there is no way of knowing how many they’ve dropped since I last stopped to think.

at the birthday party I meet someone from the bus I used to take to the city after school. I remember their smile without ever having spoken. I’m glad they don’t remember mine.

arrest this man

we gather in our thousands to marvel at the prophet from the radio. he looks out at the crowd and shakes his head like a puppet, pulling strings and pressing keys and buttons. I watch him dance under the neon waterfall as everybody chants out loud the thoughts he once tied to words and cast to power in a song. he looks like an alien and sings like his soul needs to scream but doesn’t know how.

at the first strum of his final song we hear a shout from the audience: ‘what will it take for you to acknowledge the massacre of over ten thousand children in Palestine?’ a chorus of groans and the spell is broken. the alien invites the man onstage as a challenge before storming off into the dark like a child. the audience is stunned. some people aim the torches on their phones at the man until security finds him and demands he leaves. when the alien returns, the faithful cheer and the worship continues as planned. he sings about a man who buzzes like a detuned radio and the calculated bitterness behind his eyes is chilling. everybody sings along and there is no way I can lose myself in the choir again.

at home I check my phone and read he played my favourite songs the night before. I curse my luck and laugh that I can have so much and still want more when everything is wrong outside.

on the tram

I can move in any way I wish and it is a privilege to be stuck and not unsafe. without wings I can fly above the clouds that roll on from my skies into yours. the distance between where and who I am from what I dream and wish only matters when I decide tears mean more than the time that makes up the night. there is comfort in the temporal nature of every moment. I am lost in myself and not in the rubble and everything is only for now.

on the tram the boy leans in to whisper in her ear. he makes the girl laugh and the whole world is only for them. she smiles with her teeth as he pulls her onto the street right as the sliding doors shut.

tomorrow’s boulder

the work waits for me like a dog that has me tamed. tasks bookend every moment spent on anything else. I wake to push the boulder through gritted teeth, knowing well how much heavier it could be. the day moves without the sun, which never makes it through the window by my desk. outside the clouds are in the way. they hang distant and blurred on the edges of my focus as I press the keys to fill the boxes on the screen. the sky is grey and I don’t think all day. my washing dries just fine.

my brother says he saw me in a nightmare. last night he dreamt I did something I shouldn’t and he’s worried about what it means. I dreamt of school and the clarity of knowing where I’m meant to go. without warning my phone flashes reminders of the last time I performed before it was time to grow up. like most of the once familiar faces in the photos, the boy in the baggy blue shirt is a stranger to me, though we share the same name and vital organs. he gave everything to try to understand his role and how to tell that story. eight years sit between us now. I wonder what he’d think of how we’ve spent the time and what we’ve done with all his dreams.

I leave the house to buy the medicine I take to wake up and greet tomorrow’s boulder. on my phone I read about another day of innocent deaths in their hundreds. I shake my head at my greed and wonder why safety is never enough for me. at the counter they ask if I would like a receipt. I tell them I’m okay and thank them for their help.

I could stay beneath

on the shore we face the clouds on the horizon. I wince at the chill of the wind on my skin. the waves rise high and promise to be even colder. up ahead, my friends dip their toes in the shallows. I run past and dive into the cold that isn’t any worse than the breeze. in the water I open my eyes and glide over the sand. the waves crash above me and everything I hear is muffled and less important underneath. there is peace in the absence of air and any expectation to be. I have love for my friends on the shore and still wish I could stay beneath at least a little longer than I can.

on the train I dance between messages I’ve missed and headlines that should be left in nightmares they’ve escaped. the occupation widens its gaze with attacks in another capital. we talk about how it’s going to end, knowing well there is no use in playing with the thought that there’s any hope for consequence. I miss the rally to swim and taste expensive wines and the drones erase another school. the families were living there in tents until the place went up in flames. I complain about the size of the room I have the choice to rent; they burn through the night or have nowhere else to go.

I call a friend I’ve missed and remember my arms will never reach far enough. my heart holds so much that I can’t. in my dream I know where to go but never know what to say. when I wake up I will boil the kettle and have even less to say.

all I am and know

on the train I talk with a friend about learning to live in a way that makes sense if not meaning. a glass half full has replaced the weight on his shoulders that once bound him to silence and distance from those of us who worried. he speaks about tomorrow and there always being something more to try and I admire that he can see what I haven’t in a while now. his company is precious and I savour the chance to be passing time with somebody I love. there is a lightness in the way he holds himself. I hear it in his voice and see how it carries in the way he looks out through the window at the clouds and lakes and towns he’s never seen. we talk about holding ourselves back and the privilege of being our own biggest obstructions in a world so spent and broken. with time and trying he has learnt to love himself. I ask him how and he suggests we have a lot in common with ourselves and it shouldn’t be so hard. in theory I agree and there’s nothing here to argue so I listen and try to learn. 

my eyes are heavy and I surrender another day of time with nothing to show for who and where I’ve been. I forget about my dreams until they’re all I am and know.

somebody else on the phone

the weight of the week binds me to my bed and I rise later than I should. when I open the screen everything is as I left it. emails are shrugs shedding the tasks nobody wants to touch. I catch the requests in the butterfly nets they’ve tied to both my hands. another day in the spreadsheet and the signs and shapes make less sense the more time I pour in. the hours are measured in cups of tea and thoughts of how I’d rather be. my parents call and ask about the weather and I haven’t seen the sky all day.

once I disconnect there is space to think and breathe. I remember who I am and what I lack and read the news. there is always something to feel. when facts and faces make me cry I feel my pulse and know that I’m still here. but there is always more to do. I walk to the store to replenish the shelf I’ve cleared with the same packaged goods I use to fuel this fragile frame. birds sing and I listen to somebody else on my phone.

the sun hangs later than I’d like. I distract myself with sales and absent thoughts of chasing winter round the world.

just another bug

the therapist on my screen asks me how I’ve been. we haven’t spoken in a couple of months, and the last time our conversation surfaced a new label to stamp on my medical record. without her presence in the room I can tell she is tired. there’s a quiet strain in her voice that I hear in the patient questions of my manager on the phone to the others she is paid to wait on and keep organised. I tell the therapist about my new religion and how faithful I’ve been to the emails and spreadsheets. she wants me to be mindful of balance and asks about my food and sleep. I answer all her questions and leave the narrative behind. I confess to loneliness and dissatisfaction with this routine of shame and perpetual loathing for myself and for the world. we talk about the slope and knowing where it leads and I agree to goals she sets and says well measure as time passes. before we say goodbye she offers me another session for earlier than we had planned. I accept without question and see some good in the absence of pride.

on my run the clouds are grey and heavy with the promise of rain that never comes. I twist around trees and keep score of the number of steps I’ve pressed on certain tiles like a spell. the counting that used to dictate every move creeps back into the patterns of my thinking like an absent friend that made me feel they really cared once upon a time. however unwelcome, the return does little to shake me. I am tired and fragile and the counting is just another bug devoid of meaning. it will come and go like every thought or ghost I shouldn’t entertain and I will still be here. 

I dream of change like a tree that grows through the floor of my room overnight. 

and open another

everything is on display. I’m mapping measures from a framework and they’re pulling bodies from the rubble. my first friend from the city I’ve fumbled sends photos of the kitten he’s adopted. they tour the monarch round the colony and we show up to shower flowers over the waning flesh of an idea that stands against the heart of the values of the hill on which we choose to die. outside the station gates they try to make me sell my soul to a gym or a cause I might believe but won’t commit to. someone I work for is greeted at a conference like a prophet after crossing the globe sipping wine in a recliner over lands our taxes fund the death of. there’s footage of animals that don’t exist and apartment blocks caving in on themselves in seconds. I close the lid of one screen and open another to greet the stranger I pay to listen to the thoughts I don’t know what to do with. everything is on display. how much really matters?

rooms that could be real

in my dreams I share my shoebox room once more with another one I miss and cannot hold. they take the top bunk and I lie beneath, though we laugh all through the night. I want to believe there’s something more exciting that I just can’t quite remember, as though I could use the stories I tell sleeping to revive the ego and breathe life into the carcass of the thought that my mind is still remarkable. there is always greed for more. some dreams are nights that could have been in rooms that could be real. nothing really happens but we’re happy and that must be worth something.

I leave the office to buy the drink I learn to like to stay awake. at my desk I complain about the taste and how I miss the old barista though I never even knew their name. what used to make me shiver fuels my focus on the screen. I follow the shapes of the letters and numbers and the webs they craft to pull shreds of meaning from the taps of those they’re said to represent. there are new forms attached to emails and requests for more information: I respond with what I know and wait for the questions to come.

at night I indulge the parasite and reach for my own questions left unanswered. pulling one from the highest shelf brings the whole thing crashing down and I am covered in the dust and weight of where and who I’ve been. I map memories and dreams like stars on the ceiling, just as wonderful and impossible to ever hold again. on my pillow I harbour the privilege to mourn my own potential until it makes me sick. I open my phone and wake up. how many children will they kill while I sleep through the rain?

without words

I have nothing to say. without words there is nothing to carry the weight of the tides in this morbid mind of mine. every day I wake and want to be more than I think I can. comparison is a vulture and she swoops straight for the achilles. the heel bleeds tears I waste on my reflection, despite all the good and the light that still gets in. at the end of the day I let go of the tasks that make my time mean nothing and the footage of the flames and all I see is what I lack. the game continues then: I chase distraction from the space I hold and who I am in channels that will never last. no matter where I run it’s never far enough. the static always comes and every path pulls me back to where I was before.

I have nothing to say. without words I don’t know how to wash away the ties that bind me to the anchor. on the way home from the rally a friend tells me he is happy about how things are going. I wonder if he means it and can’t remember if I’ve ever felt the same. for a moment I play with the idea that this matters in the face of a broken world and the death of humanity streaming live for our viewing pleasure whenever we choose to wake up.

on my phone there’s a child stuck in the empty space between apartment blocks and supermarkets deconstructed by the missiles they make near my house. he can’t stand but he screams and waves his hands until a group of others come to his aid. I watch a bomb fall from the sky and cover them in clouds. we can’t tell if anyone survived and there is nothing I can do. I am angry and ungrateful and my feelings will not stop the bombs.

empty hours

I greet the day wishing I could see things through another’s eyes. my disillusionment embarrasses me as one of the lucky ones in a world caving in on itself. I want to be more grateful for the good, though this want is forever dwarfed by the knowledge that who I am and what I do makes no difference to the machine. with my seat at the table I press the right buttons and am afforded the security and comfort I have learnt to take for granted. my time is taxed to fuel a war machine we’re taught not to talk about. outside people flood the streets with flags and signs demanding change. there are screams to stop the bombing but we can close the windows and turn on the radio. the truth can be dangerous but we know how to protect ourselves.

in empty hours I play with reason and unanswered questions as I once had with the knights in the castle collecting dust in my parent’s garage. I take my favourite toys through the quiet streets at night as I let my mind wander down unsurfaced paths. there are lifeless bikes in gutters and bins lined in waiting for judgement day and the knights keep fighting in my head. the duel is never ending and by time I’ve made it home and boiled the kettle I feel more lost and empty than before.

I try to look at the good. I call my parents and I love them. there are clouds and cats and songs that read like friends I wish I knew. there are people to miss and nights to fill with dreaming. I look at where and who I am and try to see more than an empty cage afraid of food and the mirror. the wind passes through and waves the curtain in the afternoon. I inhale the new air through my nose and wonder if I’ll grow again.

hysterical and useless

there are ghosts I play with sometimes instead of sleep or dreaming. I count the time that’s passed since we were people to each other and taunt myself with memories and thoughts of scenes we might have staged had things been different then. a cast of ghouls I choose to love and miss when forgetting is the only path to forge forward: I know what I need but sit still with the tools, unwilling to pull down the facade that meant enough to make me believe in something shared and sacred.

the pulse of the alarm exorcises any friends I made sleeping. my body is tired and I move slowly. at my desk I drink tea and listen to the same song over and over, relishing the metaphor of the crushed insect dreaming of growing wings as it falls apart. people I love need to talk about hurting and I want to hear and share the weight but in the mirror I am frail. my friend is selling clothes at the store up the road. she reminds me of my responsibility to listen to myself. I buy her coffee and she holds my hand.

I try to write and laugh at the string of words I’ve spat on the screen. every day a vain attempt to make meaning of a mind that won’t change and a world that doesn’t want to wake up. nothing new and all the same tomorrow. I wash my sheets and hang them in the rain. hysterical and useless.

in the rain

for dinner we cook pasta in the same way I used to when I lived in the hotel. when the lounge is free we drink tea and watch a movie about the future. everything is red or beige and reading is a crime. the firemen burn the books they find while everybody else stays home. they spend all day on the couch watching strangers on the screen who they call family. a woman is found with a library behind her wall. she refuses to leave and so we watch her burn atop the pile of paperbacks. I think of what they taught me about the war and how they burnt the books in the street. when she falls to the ground her hand reaches out and I see the boy from the clip on my phone who couldn’t escape the flames. the woman in the film didn’t want to see a world without her books. the boy on my phone had no choice in living - he was bound to a hospital bed after narrowly surviving another attack. but they both lost their lives to fire. she lived in a world of people so afraid of stories that they burned them. we live in a world that does the same.

I don’t dream and wish I did. at my desk I slip between the tasks and the stories we don’t want to hear. I read the updates as they come through on another tab in a steady flow that never stops. my housemate cries because she left her washing in the rain. 

stamp and sell

everyone is tired. there is too much to do in not enough time. the tasks are tedious. they surface in a constant flow as though they grow on trees. I spend weeks plugging facts and figures in documents they’ll stamp and sell with someone else’s name. by time the day is over the tank is empty and there’s no more energy for doing more than thinking of what I’m not and what I lack. I close the screen and wash my face and wish I spent more time in the sun.

I worry about people I love and wish I’d done more to keep them from worrying about me. they want me to do and be well. in the fridge there is something for dinner. at the table I watch footage on my phone of a single missile passing through a town. buildings older than the gospels explode into a cloud. I wonder if the bomb was one I paid for from the comfort of my spreadsheet.

there are stories I want to tell and people I want to hold. at the end of the day I never do either. everyone is tired. the energy is gone. all that’s left is space to think. I miss and wish until I dream again.

infinite patience and empathy

at the conference I meet a robot designed to build personal relationships. she stands beside a sign detailing her repertoire, including infinite patience and empathy. she speaks ninety languages and wants to keep the lonely company in nursing homes. her face is a screen and her left hand shoots out bubbles.

in the auditorium there’s a panel of important people onstage masquerading as experts on the best interests of children. they speak to an audience that wants to be told how and what to think about something they don’t understand and lack the drive to learn. one of them is a comedian I used to watch on sketch shows with my brothers when the world was smaller and sense didn’t matter all that much. like the others his concern is founded on a fear of what we don’t yet understand. there is talk of children’s needs and rights without a second spared to platform child perspectives and listen to what they have to say. instead of logic, every point leans on emotion or distraction from the fact that we left the kids at home. the irony is lost on the crowd and I feel like a fool in my unwillingness to surrender critical thought.

on the walk home they’re painting over the writing on the wall that I pass almost every day. I wish I stopped to read before they covered over everything.

again

I keep watching the video. he’s reaching out for help from inside the building. today they’ve shared stories about him and his family; apparently they survived another massacre just last week. he was recording videos about the genocide since his displacement. in the footage he is still in his hospital bed. I watch over and over as his body is claimed by the flames again and again. there is screaming and weeping and nothing anybody can do.

I have the choice to watch or look away. at school they taught us about the man made horrors. we read about mushroom clouds and atom bombs and death camps and showers that sprayed poison on already starved bodies for burning. we learnt about the evil that massacred millions,   once justified by the masses on the basis of fear and hate. afterwards, we were taught, we looked at what had happened and swore never again. I saw again on my phone today. no doubt I’ll see it tomorrow. again is normal now. we watch or look away and nobody flinches. business as usual. I learn languages and codes that mean nothing for another day of pay and every second is tax for another cent for another weapon for another massacre my country will fund.

in the park the police remove posters for demonstrations from the street lamp. on the phone there are severed limbs and morning runs and lifeless children and new haircuts and burning schools and golden hour and politicians saying nothing. this is a nightmare and I don’t know how to want to wake up.

the planes are still flying

the bombs hit schools and hospitals. I watch them all go up in flames on my phone. there are figures inside and I can make out hands reaching out for help if I force myself to focus. the rain pours like it hasn’t in weeks. I hear the storm and see it on my window: never forced to feel a single drop against my skin. inside the house I am safe. I am never left wanting and it is a choice to care that children are burning alive while I’m paid to press keys and shut out the rest of the world. the child once believed in the dream of a fairer world. he doesn’t know what to believe in anymore.

the planes are still flying despite all the rain. I boil the kettle, return to my desk and try to do the same.

on the wires

I live in the inbetween

before and after everything

where nothing really happens

and we take down all the lights

sometimes there’s talk of movement

whispers carried on the wires

fuelling dreams for the believers

on the platform on the screen

we think of colours and tomorrow

talk of change and maybe hope

something more than respiration

or another day to work

and whilst we wait

because we wait

collecting dust until we’re grey

we count the cobwebs

til we can’t see

and there is nothing left to say

all we can do

is think and think

and so we think until we can’t

and leave the dreams for someone else

nesting in the husks

of the shadows of ourselves

we fold into empty skulls

devoid of thought

forever dull

forever safe from hopes and dreams

forever in the inbetween.

there are days devoid of energy. the body moves slowly, heavy with the tired heart it cradles. I walk to the store to keep myself awake. the lights and sounds sober me to my surrounds and I take part in the game we all play so well. there is so much for me to want and claim and I indulge. at home I make a salad because I know it is good for me and my body. I think about the choice I can make to feed myself with food that keeps me well and energised. every morning I scan images of children starving in the streets of crumbling cities. I look in the mirror and I am disgusted by the pathetic game between my body and mind in a world of millions lacking the food I don’t want to eat. poisoned thinking stalks my every choice: I sit and watch it cloud over sense and the heart it suffocates. I pray for change and fall asleep into a chance to see your face again.