treasures, odds and ends

the meeting room we booked had no windows. I played resident young person on staff so I could catch the sun on coffee runs to the cafe outside. by time I boarded my train home the sky was dark. we don’t really see stars up here, so the canvas lacks a lot of what I appreciate about it back home. I listen to the same rotation of songs that seem to echo whispers of connection to feelings and thoughts that occupy my heart and mind. the lyrics and melodies wrap me softly into brief stillness, a blanket of comfortable melancholy.

I am tired from the long day of being on and present for tasks and people I don’t really know or understand. on the phone I listen to somebody I love and wish I could be doing more that offering my ears and thoughts. I pack my bags for an early flight and figure I don’t have space for a sketchbook. there won’t be much time for drawing, though when will there ever be?

I choose clothes to wear to a funeral of someone who knew me before I was born. my colleagues ask me to give their best to Mum. she is in their thoughts. I don’t want to imagine how it might feel to prepare for her funeral. the occupation slaughtered more than seventy in a humanitarian zone just minutes after ordering evacuation. will there ever be funerals for the forty thousand martyrs? how am I meant to hold faith in a human project that talks more about the mirror than the mass murder of children? do answers exist? when will I stop looking?

I carry heavy eyes and feelings. I am a canvas bag of expired goods and half charged batteries. an accumulation of potential treasures, odds and ends. I sink into the pillow and see myself in dreams.