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.
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