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.