fickle

at the rally I am absorbed into something bigger than myself. for a couple of hours my anger connects me to the masses around me. we march through the city and shout. we reject the reality we are told to accept by the fracturing powers that be. my voice chants along and I am not my thoughts but something safer and stronger. children sing proudly through the megaphones. demands for justice and an end to state funded massacres. onlookers film on their phones and talk to each other. some smile and wave. I see the back of the head of a ghost. he’s marching just ahead of me. he sings along and shouts the same words and for a moment we are both parts of the same choir.

I run as the sun settles. when I shower before dinner I think of how I’d hoped to have spent my time between days at my desk. I’ve not touched my sketchpad or guitar. the story I’m trying to write has sat dormant for weeks on my digital desktop. there will always be an excuse. I’ll blame Nonna this time, until something else comes along and sends me off course. it can never be my own fickle fear of failure or inability to be still. it is always out of my control. I can recognise the parasite in the mirror, though I can’t stop feeding it.

in bed I wrap my arms around myself and listen to artificial rain on my phone. I worry about the people I love and run away from thinking critically about how and where I’m going. I close my eyes and hope I’ll dream.