cold and safe

the days and nights are cold now. I sit at my desk and press the keys. I send emails and edit documents. three or four cups of tea through the work day. one or two in the evening. I check the news every hour or so. with every bomb dropped on a refugee camp or school I try to visualise the numbers. how big is a group of 17? a group of 45? a massacre of 270? what does that look like? I don't bother trying to understand how the numbers are rationalised. I send my emails and edit my documents. I am paid for my work. I pay taxes, which tie me to the bombs dropping on schools and hospitals, all the way from my tiny igloo of a room on the other side of the planet.

my little brother travels with his partner. London first, now Paris. places that have meant a lot to me. he sends photos of art I love and remember seeing for the first time. he walks through places I've been and shared with people I love. I miss him. I miss the freedom and escape and endless distraction of somewhere new. I miss people I won't see again.

the cold keeps me up and I fold into myself. the spiral tightens and I follow. I think of what I lack and unanswered questions. a lot of time lost dwelling on the people that vanish. I count them and wonder what I did to make them disappear. the ghosts make me feel small. more join the ranks with each year that passes, without explanation or even goodbye. no answers. no closure beyond dreamt up reunions. I remind myself that I hurt people too and wish I could take it all away.

I eat and sleep and carry on (and who doesn't?) when I wake I am still here. it's cold but I'm safe.